


The Lord of the Rocks

by Hail_Gothmog



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Bromance, Humor, Middle Earth, Multi, Parody, Silmarils
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23860963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hail_Gothmog/pseuds/Hail_Gothmog
Summary: Oropher and Gil-galad sent Thranduíl on a dangerous quest: destroy a silmaril. Helped by the valiant Glorfindel, will the statuesque Prince succeed to hide from the seven Nazgûls, and drop the silmaril in Mount Doom before being caught by Morgoth? A parody of the Silmarillion and the Lord of the Rings, featuring the ghost of Fëanor, Shelob and Elrond's lost hairbrush.
Relationships: Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Glorfindel & Thranduil (Tolkien)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is off-canon and completely OOC. Read it at your own risks. Mainly inspired by the French serie «Kaamelott» (writing fanfiction after watching this should be forbidden, but, oh well.)
> 
> It is unbeta'ed. All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Note: I changed the title because I had the idea of the genius. It won't happen again, don't worry. (2020-05-17)

Greenwood the Great was widely known for its never-ending parties. Right, it was more a matter of propaganda and envy from other realms that saw the Elven kingdom as a Valinor-on-Middle-Earth, hence Greenwood’s reputation of frequent high intoxication level. Little did they know about Morgoth’s Orcs and Ungoliant’s spiders taking refuge in the woods. Perhaps it was for the best, for Oropher had no time to argue on rumours and foreign rethoric to debunk false assumptions about his realm. Nevertheless, in spite of the darkening days, he ensured the inhabitants of his kingdom—minus the Orcs and spiders who deserved nothing but to perish in the hot flames of Mount Doom—benefited from mandatory holidays. For this occasion, he often organised parties at his palace. Tonight was the night, one of those nights who lasted around a week or so. Musicians were playing music, singers were singing, cooks were cooking, dancers were dancing, and the royal family was, well, royally drinking. 

Except that the royal family was limited to King Oropher himself and his son, Prince to the throne and heir, Thranduíl. Who, surprisingly, was missing. 

“Mithrandir,” enquired Oropher to the wizard, who contemplated a wine glass in deep concentration, “have you seen my son?”

“Yes,” answered Gandalf, softly brushing a finger around his glass.

“Where is he?”

“Now? I don’t know.”

“You told me you did a second ago!” Oropher felt irritation building up. Wizards were skillful and wise beings, but having three eternities to kill, they did forget about the necessity to act efficiently, was it to fight against Morgoth’s armies, or answering the simpliest question that was ‘what would you like to eat for breakfast?’. 

Gandalf slowly lowered his glass. 

“If you meant ‘Have you seen Prince Thranduíl at least once since the Music?’, then yes, I did. However, if you meant ‘Have you seen Thranduíl in the past two hours?’, then no, I did not.” 

The Elvenking sighed. 

“Mithrandir, we cannot delay the mission. He is the only one fit for it and you know it.”

“I am well aware, thank you very much.”

“So?”

“No. I prefer to ignore the stress this situation is putting me through by admiring this piece of art,” Gandalf replied, shaking the wine glass under Oropher’s nose. 

“Then we must tell him with alcohol flowing through our veins, shall we? I have excellent cane juice rum from Rhûn” invited the Sinda, after glaring at the wizard with the might of a father used to deal with a young disobedient elfling. 

Gandalf grunted, but accepted. He couldn’t postpone this forever, and he largely prefered to do it at least a bit drunk than fully sober—that is, if Maiar had the capacity to be drunk. No one knew. The wizard tended to be a great actor…

***

Thranduíl was peacefully sleeping on his bed, his face as beautiful as the prettiest of the Ainur, slightly oriented to the window, and the moonlight reflected on his snow-white skin. His hair—a silvery blonde fall cascading around his slim waist— laid on his bare chest like a silk blanket. He was said to be one of the most handsome Eldar, having inherited of his father’s face and stature, and his mother’s mystical aura, more handsome than maybe, any of the Vanyar. Next to him rested another Elf. Lindir was his name. He was sent to Greendwood by Gil-galad and his herald Elrond for diplomatic meetings. Lindir was a bard and no messenger by profession, but he was calm, shy and thoughtful, and eager to maintain good relations and diplomacy. His brown hair and halzenut eyes were the delight of many of the Wood Elves who thought he was one of theirs—another valuable reason why Lindir was sent. The Sindar and Nandor didn’t bear Noldor to their hearts—Avari didn’t care much, but they heard of the delightful tales told by the Sindar, which offered a very poor first impression, suffice to say. Consequently, Gil-galad judged better to not go himself, or to send Elrond or Erestor, his most appreciated librarian and scholar of Imladris. 

Lindir and Thranduíl immediately became friends. Lindir’s gentleness was a balm to Thranduíl’s authoritative temper. The Prince saw in the Noldo genuine appreciation of a peaceful life and artistic masterpieces. They spent hours together discussing architecture, fashion, jewelry, and paintings. Of course, when a messenger was sent to Greenwood, the King would offer them hospitality, and the whole ethnic experience, including traditional costumes, food, music, dances, and canoeing in the rapids. Most messengers were unused to such an outdoor life, but their physical condition considerably improved after their stay at Eryn Galen. Lindir proved himself competent at camping, except that he often mistook eatable mushrooms for hallucinogenic ones. The Sinda Prince kept an eye on him since then.

Away from the noises of the ball, the two of them were asleep on Thranduíl’s bed, a scene Oropher did not predict when he entered his son’s room with Gandalf. 

“Penneth,” the King whispered, “wake up, we have to talk.” 

Thranduíl stirred, softly moaned and shove his father away.

“Thranduíl, I insist,” persisted Oropher. 

No reaction. Gandalf judged appropriate to gently poke the Prince with his staff. 

“What do you want?” hissed this last one. 

“There we go,” smiled Oropher. He sat down on the bed, affectuously resting his hand on Thranduíl’s leg. Gandalf looked like he too desired to sit on the bed but considered otherwise when he saw the body laying at Thranduíl’s side. He did an interesting back and forth between the bed, the window, the table in the corner, and alternatively looked at the floor several times. After considering his options, the wizard decided he would rest his back against the wall facing the Prince. 

The Prince wasn’t pleased to the slightest. Valar knew how difficult it was for Eldar to get decent sleep worthy of the Men’s. He noticed there was hair in his mouth. Thinking it was his own, he absent-mindedly chewed on it, before realising it was not its usual texture, and that a few strands of wavy brown hair were spreaded around his face. He sheepishly pushed it away and sat down, being careful not to wake Lindir up. 

“Tell me,” started Oropher, “why is Lindir in your bed?”

“It would be impolite to make him sleep under it,” retorted Thranduíl.

“He has a room.”

“Yes, but we didn’t actively plan to fall asleep while talking.” 

“Could you not talk while standing?” 

“We could. This is not what we chose to do.”

Oropher heavily sighed, “What in Elbereth’s name are you doing naked in your bed with an ellon next to you?”

“Sleeping, obviously. Besides, I’m not completely naked, I’m wearing leggings,” Thranduíl lifted his left leg and pointed at it as a matter of fact. “Lindir is fully dressed.” He paused. What if Lindir undressed during his sleep? He quickly glanced at his friend, then glanced back at his father, “Yes, he is indeed covered in clothes from head to toes. Almost. Figuratively.” 

The King opened his mouth to argue, but was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a buffalo drowning in porridge. He seemingly forgot about Gandalf, who had no patience left to endure another father-and-son quarrel. The grey wizard cleared his throat with somewhat an ounce of dignity, “King Oropher, I ought to remind you we aren’t here to discuss the romantic whereabouts of Prince Thranduíl.”

“Right…” muttered the monarch. He fidgeted, which was unusual. Oropher was confident most of the time, rarely hesitated and certainly did not chew his words. Gandalf took a bottle from under his sleeve—of course, improperly large sleeves must have a use, mused the Woodland Prince. The Istar took a long sip of the mysterious liquid, passed it to Oropher who too drank longly, then the King lended it to his son. Thranduíl frowned.

“Rum. From Rhûn. Much needed,” grimaced Oropher. His son shrugged but nodded, and took a sip as well. 

“My son beloved,” started the King, “you know the story of the silmarils.”

“I do indeed. What a curse.” The frown of the Prince deepened. 

“Mithrandir, I have no idea how to approach this subject.” whined Oropher. He secretly thought discussing Ent reproduction would be less inconvenient than what was about to be revealed. 

“Prince Thranduíl,” declared Gandalf, “to briefly summarise, when Lúthien and Beren took one silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, it ended in the hands of Celegorm who passed it to Maglor, who threw it in the sky not so long ago. However, little did he know I was flying around Arda with Eönwë. The silmaril hit me in the I-shan’t-dare-to-detail-where. Eönwë took the silmaril before Manwë. The High King of the Valar, after numerous councils with the Istari and other Ainur, decided none of us could destroy it. You may know it burnt Melkor’s hand, when he was mighty amongst the Ainur. As you conjecture, Manwë spoke and sent me back to Middle Earth, for I was bound to find a silmaril bearer. Of all the Children of Iluvatar, you are the most skillful in… resisting the evil… should I say.”

Lindir stirred from his place. He blinked several times, smiled at Thranduíl and yawned.

“Fret not child, you may go back to sleep,” paternally purred Oropher.

“You may not,” interjected Mithrandir. “He has the right to know why the Prince will accompany him to Imladris.” 

“You comin’ with me, m’lord?” murmured Lindir with a rough voice. “The High King sent you an invitation? Didn’t tell me ‘e would…” The poor fellow’s mind was clouded by the remnants of sleep.

He sat down with some difficulty, passed a hand in his hair, looked around him, nodded a tired “g’day milords” to Gandalf and Oropher before happily smiling to Thranduíl. He seemed to realise there was the Elvenking sitting on the bed and Mithrandir standing against the wall a few seconds later. His eyes opened in surprise while his elegant eyebrows reached his forehead. 

“Thranduíl!” The bard was too shocked to make use of politeness and formal titles. “There’s Gandalf and your father! Here!”

“Your eyes are working well, my friend,” smirked the Sinda.

“But, why? Am I dreaming?” 

“I’m afraid not.”

“There, there,” lightly said Oropher, who felt weirdly too nonchalant about whatever this was to scold his guest about using his son’s first name only—he nevertheless took mental note of it, his suspicions rising higher than they already were. He took the bottle from Gandalf’s hand. “Would you like to try it? It’s from Rhûn, it is very good.” 

“If you insist. Thank you, your Highness,” blushed Lindir. After tasting it, he exclaimed, “This is not wine! Ai Elbereth!” 

“It is called ‘rum’,” informed the Elvenking, “it is a very efficient way to wake up and feel alert.” 

“I see.” The Ñoldo looked around him, the question burning on his lips. 

“If you want to know why my father and Mithrandir are in my room,” answered Thranduíl, “it is because I have to destroy a silmaril, apparently. Really, Ada, what was in this rum?”

“Rum,” brilliantly replied the sovereign.

“Ah, yes, the floor is made out of floor,” snorted the Prince. 

“Prince, this is no joke!” eructed Gandalf. 

“It is not?” This last one raised an eyebrow. 

“It is not.”

“No? No. Oh no…” Thranduíl looked at utter lost and disbelief. Lindir, who was braiding his friend’s hair, amicably patted him on the back. 

“Indeed, you can say that…” grumbled Oropher who judged wise to take some more of the golden nectar. 

Gandalf pulled something from his sleeve—this other one, this time, noted the Prince, and stretched it to the Wood Elf. “Take it,” he ordered, “unwrap it.” Thranduíl obeyed. Before him was a jewel, small, but shining. All the stars of Varda danced within the stone. The Prince pensively brushed it with his thumb. Oropher and Lindir gasped in awe. 

“Does it burn?” asked the wizard. 

“Obviously not.” Thranduíl rolled his eyes, “If it did, you would have known quickly.” 

“You are indeed not silent when displeased,” commented his father.

“You are the only one, except Fëanor, of course,” said Gandalf, “who isn’t burnt at its touch.” The wizard opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, reclosed it. He cleared his throat—he sounded only like a small mouse drowning in porridge this time—unsure what to ask next. 

“What do you think of it?” asked Lindir, hypnotised by the silmaril.

“I’m hungry. I would like to sleep more,” said Thranduíl.

“My lord,” sighed Lindir, “I meant the silmaril.”

“Ha!” screamed Gandalf in victory. “I am not the only one with evasive answers!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” groaned Oropher, “he has it from his mother, I have experience in the field.”

Thranduil shot his adar an annoyed look before turning back to Lindir, “It’s alright, I suppose. It is beautiful, captivating, but then… It is a mere shiny rock, so what?” 

The bard stared at him like he had grown five Balrog’s wips on the top of his head. “That is all?” he enquired. “Aren’t you impressed?” 

“Of course, I am,” shrugged the Wood Elf, “but what would you like me to do with a stone that is at the source of so many wars, conflicts, deaths and darkness?”  
Oropher appeared touched for a moment. 

“Drop it in Mount Doom!” screamed Gandalf, who closely followed the conversation. “Just as I told you a few minutes ago!” 

“I think you did not,” said the King.

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Well. Now I do! Drop it in Mount Doom!” repeated the grey wizard. 

Dread fell upon Thranduíl like acid rain. And to say he only desired to live his life simply, lead the finances of Greenwood the Great, and kick Orcs out from the kingdom! 

“When do we start?” whispered the Sinda. Oropher moved closer to his son to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“As soon as possible, ideally. I communicated with King Gil-galad, he knows he shall receive you and Lindir to his palace very soon,” provided Gandalf. 

The Prince remained silent for a moment. “I think…,” he began, “I would need a few days to prepare myself.”

“This is reasonable. I shall leave by tomorrow, and I am not ready,” confessed the wizard.

“Will you? Really!” burst Oropher, which made Lindir jump. “I have not seen you pack your things, you should start now, it sometimes takes you forever to make decisions, like what weed to smoke! You chew your pipe most of the time, I wonder if smoking is relevant to your life at all…”

Clearly, the rum had its effects on the Woodland monarch. 

“I will be fine, thank you very much for your concerns,” questioningly articulated Mithrandir. Was it so patent he chewed his pipe? He took the rum bottle from Oropher’s hand to ponder on it while sipping.

Lindir, untroubled, dozed off on Thranduíl’s shoulder, but was woken up by the glare of a displeased Sindarin sovereign. The Prince was playing with his newly acquired silmaril. He needed to find a place to hide it. He could not eat it, neither wear a necklace. One option certainly implied a discomfort of some sort, the other would be too visible to the public’s eyes. Being able to hold it with no physical consequence—from the jewel itself, a voice in his head muttered others would willingly throw vases at him if it meant to be in possession of the Light of the Trees—meant both an honour and an insult to him. He had an advantage over Morgoth himself, no matter how diminished his might was, remained more powerful than a fair amount of people, to put it that way, but it was degrading him to share this advantage with Fëanor exclusively. Thranduíl may not be an excellent craftsman, but he was highly educated, and physically more competent, thanks to the Woodland culture that required its inhabitants to sing like birds, roar like tigers, swim like sharks, crawl like spiders, and speak to the trees. No way I am like him, he mentally huffed. 

“I forgot!” Gandalf, taken by surprise by his own cry, dropped his staff. The bottle slipped from his hand and landed in Oropher’s arms, who caught it with all the agility a drunken Elda could provide. He clutched his arms around it like a newborn to protect. 

“I forgot that,” the Istar continued, “there are seven Nazgûls running through Middle Earth for the silmaril. They themselves aren’t running much, but their horses are. They want to retrieve the silmaril.” 

“Fëanor is dead,” opposed Oropher. 

“The Oath definitely is not.” remarked Thranduíl. 

“You are correct,” said Gandalf, “however, his sons were corrupted by Sauron and physically remade by the power of Morgoth. They are under the service of the Dark Lords. We know not what is left of Fëanor, presumably he is wondering around Mandos Halls.”

“Sauron is dead…” sleepily mused Lindir. 

“Yes.” Mithrandir seemed to hesitate. “For… now. He comes back very often. When he was Mairon the Admirable, he gave Aulë heart attacks for disappearing with no prior warning, and coming back the next Valian week. This is what Eönwë told me.” 

“He has been away for a couple of centuries, now,” calculated the bard.

“Don’t you find it strange Greenwood suddenly hosts Orcs and spiders who aren’t all refugees from Mordor, and it is becoming harder to tell friend from foe with these creatures?” questioned Thranduil. 

“I’ve always said it was Sauron’s doing,” sulked his adar, “yet no one took me seriously the first time I mentioned it.”

“My lord, they will believe your word. Captain Glorfindel reported curious orcish activity around Rohan. Lady Galadriel herself sensed something was coming, although according to Lord Celeborn, a badly cooked salmon is likely to be foreseen as ‘terrible’,” detailed the wizard. “Regardless, do you understand the gravity of your mission, Prince Thranduíl? The fate of Arda is within your hands. If Nazgûls were to enter Greenwood the Great…”

“They won’t,” interrupted Oropher.

“How so?”

“Because the King said ‘no’!” exclaimed Thranduil. “My mother said ‘no’, I say ‘no’, my future wife and children will say ‘no’!” 

Gandalf sighed, “Prince… The Nazgûls are deaf.” 

The Sinda groaned and banged his head against his father’s shoulder. This was going to be a long mission indeed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!  
> I am not an English native speaker, if there are any mistakes, please let me know.
> 
> The character of Thranduíl is based on movie!Thranduíl, aka King of Sass™️ and the canon Elvenking who tells Bard he won't go to war over gold.
> 
> Thank you to everyone (you know who you are) who supported me starting this fic!


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to slide here and there lines from memes or songs. Try to find them for fun.

Lord Celeborn rested his glass of wine on the table. Looking away from his book, he gazed outside. From his talan, he could see his daughter Celebrían practicing archery with Haldir, the Marchwarden. His younger brother Orophin was making a soup with ingredients he found around him, that being grass, mud, dust, rocks, leaves of all sorts. The Lord of the Golden Woods often heard the little one complaining about ants refusing to obey him and stay still in his soup. He also looked taken aback when Haldir told him it was not a good idea to eat his newly made meal. Poor elfing. Celebrían and Haldir, who grew up together, went through the same experience. They had angrily cried in Celeborn’s arms. How cursed it was to only be an Elda with a stomach that would not digest sand! To be frank, Celeborn was proned to believe only Morgoth’s creatures could eat sand. These bastards were too adaptable for Middle Earth’s good…

He noticed a ghost walking around the yard. It sat down next to Orophin, and seemed to discuss with him, to the pleasure of the child. Odd, thought Celeborn, not Haldir nor Celebrían are showing signs of worry. Mayhap this ghost spoke friend to them. After a moment of playing with the mud and cumulating a bit of dust on its sleeves, the ghost stood up and walked towards Celebrían and Haldir. The phantom definitely was the friendliest the Lord of the Golden Woods ever met; it made the stern Haldir chuckle. After affectuously brushing his daughter’s hair—who oddly returned the affection—the ghost faced Celeborn. It approached.

That was it. Námo was in town to take his fëa away.

Celeborn forgot to breathe for a moment. 

He exhaled. What a fool. The ghost was only the Lady Galadriel herself! His wife! 

“What an idea to only wear white,” complained Celeborn to Galadriel when she climbed up the stairs and came to sit next to him.

“Why not?” she enquired, curious.

“I confused you for a ghost!” he exclaimed. 

“Please. You should know I frequently wear light and pale robes.”

“You usually prefer to wear brown or green when you know you will spend some time with Orophin or jogging around with baby Rúmil on your back.”

Galadriel considered this. 

“You are correct,” the Lady admitted, “but my darker clothes are not dried yet. I came after hanging them.”

Celeborn nodded. It was a good reason, and it was indeed preferable his wife wore white clothes rather than none at all. In public, of course. He surely enjoyed when she chose to stay in full commando in the intimacy of their bedroom. Galadriel took a sip of his wine, “Is that Dorwinion?” Her husband acquiesced. “If there’s one thing I couldn’t predict was Thranduíl’s hidden talent to make the most refined wine I’ve ever tasted…” she continued.

“If it was hidden, it is normal you had no idea,” Celeborn pointed out. 

The Lady wrinkled her nose. “Mmh,” she agreed. 

“I have a very bad feeling,” she then declared.

“Artanis, love, I told you to not eat salmon when it’s badly cooked. Of course you would not feel good...”

“I’m Teleri! I should know better!” 

“You also are part Vanya and part Ñoldo. Glorfindel is Vanya, yet he cannot cook this traditional dish with curry chicken recipe you used to make when Celebrían was an elfling. Background hardly dictates competence in the kitchen. If so, why is Oropher capable of making the best falafels of Arda when he has no Rhûnin blood whatsoever?”

Galadriel nodded and smiled to herself. She always had the conviction marrying Celeborn was the right choice. He was an Elda of simple logic who never acted under the influence of intuition or emotions. Unlike the whole House of Finwë, she thought bitterly. 

She filled her lungs with fresh air—her fancy way to inhale.

“I foresaw something terrible. Other than the salmon,” she precised when she saw her husband’s raised eyebrows.

“Badly cooked apple pie? You’re fond of those…”

“Teleporno, would you please,” the Lady scoffed, starting to feel annoyed at her husband. She pursued, “I had a bad feeling. I am under the impression people will start moving around, traveling, for some… strange purposes.”

Celeborn stared at her in disbelief. This is what living beings tended to do most of the time, this was no news. He would not be done by tomorrow if he started to ask all the Eldar’s, Men’s, Orcs’ and Dwarves’ motives for each of their single travel. 

“We haven’t heard of Sauron in a while,” Galadriel said after a moment. “This is concerning.”

“Ask Mithrandir about it next time he visits,” suggested her husband. 

“I shall. Nevertheless, I have the feeling the near future will imply important personalities of the Eldar… Things are changing…” 

The Lord of Lothlórien sipped his wine pensively. He would make sure not to be involved in a diplomatic conflict with Círdan if he had the misfortunate to bump into him during his vacation at the beach with his spouse, Celebrían, Haldir and the Marchwarden’s family. He never quarreled with the bearded mariner; this could not be what his wife had in mind. He shrugged this supposition off. He directed his gaze from Galadriel to his daughter. A nauseous taste filled his mouth. “The near future will imply important personalities of the Eldar,” the voice of her wife echoed. Elbereth, I conjure you, thought Celeborn in panic, tell me that Galadriel’s premonition is not… Gil-galad asking Celebrían in marriage! 

He suddenly felt very sick. 

***

Seven shadows smoothly walked on bright green grass. They restlessly rode their horses for… quite a while. They know not how long, only that their mounts required rest and were content to be given some. They had other business to do than to check a calendar daily in order to keep track of the nights and days. Not that they possessed a calendar to start with. Morgoth told them to travel as far as they could. Here they ended, in a very peaceful pretty country inhabited by small people with curly locks and large feet. The appearance of the Nazgûls and their winged horses shocked the locals at first, until an elder decided if they were no troublesome wizards, they could stay. When children asked them if they brought fireworks with them, the Seven looked at each other in confusion before saying that no, there were no ‘works of the Fire’ under their cloaks. The wee ones made disappointed faces. Bah! The Seven were no Maiar or Spirits of Fire, after all. 

They sat atop a small hill, gazing at the village below them. They took their dark cloaks off, revealing Elven faces that once were known everywhere in Aman. They all appeared different from each other, yet they were unmistakably brothers. Their eyes, once steel grey, were black with no pupils, sign of their allegiance to darkness. There shone no star in their gaze, only the depths of the Void. 

The seven sons of Fëanor were known as ‘Nazgûls’ or ‘the Seven’ in Middle Earth. The Hobbits—thus were called the little beings of this place called ‘the Shire’--distinguished them by their hair. Wavy Red; Straight Brown; Wavy Grey; Wavy Brown; Straight Black; Straight Red (twice) they were called. Speaking no Sindarin neither Quenya, remembering their names revealed to be an impossible task for the villagers. Consequently, they opted for hairy, so to speak, characteristics. ‘Pointy ears’, ‘strange black eyes’ and ‘tall ones’ were too generic. 

The fair-haired one opened a bottle of ale and shared with his brothers. One of the straight red haired exhaled a pleased huff, “I wish we could stay here forever, ‘tis an agreeable place.” 

“Me too,” cheerfully said Straight Brown.

Wavy Brown frowned, “I doubt Sauron would allow.”

“We haven’t heard of him for a while,” pointed the second Straight Red.

“Maybe he wandered in the wild and found Celebrimbor,” said Wavy Grey. “He often expressed the desire to collaborate with another craftsman for jewelry making.”

“I wonder how he extracted from you I have a son who is a smith too,” dryly accused Straight Black.

“I… may be sensitive to beauty,” poorly justified Wavy Grey.

“You will never admit you’re easy,” smirked Wavy Brown. 

“Moryo, don’t start a fight,” scowled Wavy Red. He was under the impression the only time he opened his mouth was to bring discipline on the group. He hated being the eldest. “Can we not enjoy the view?”

“Hey, Curvo and Tyelko started it!” retorted Wavy Brown, while the second Straight Red whispered to Straight Brown he sometimes missed the day sight he used to have, to which the first Straight Red disagreed, excellent night sight was more advantageous. 

“Where do we go, now?” asked Straight Brown to his older brother. 

“We go find Sauron! I don’t want his hands near my nephew!” roared Wavy Grey. Unsolicited as always, but this one expressed himself about nothing and everything. 

“You say this because you want Sauron’s hands only on yourself,” scoffed second Straight Red. 

Wavy Grey’s smile was so large his ears almost fell. 

“Sauron does not touch First Borns, improved by Lord Melkor or not,” remarked Straight Black, gazing at his claws. “His standards are too high. He admires Gothmog and may have made a comment about Thuringwethil in the past. He devotes his existence to the Dark Vala, this is impossible to miss. I would not worry for my son, as long as this jewelry making session is fully consensual. We do not know where Tyelpë is, neither if Sauron is with him, why worry about imaginary probabilities?” 

Wavy Grey turned into the embodiment of disappointment. 

“Dear Curvo, accute and sharp as always,” smiled Straight Brown. “Just like atto.”

Silence fell upon the Nazgûls. The Seven gazed at the sky in nostalgia. Their life might be bounded by the Oath, twisted by Morgoth to submit them at his service—though they publicly admitted serving Melkor came with benefits: life insurances, health and dental care, physical upgrades, and paid vacations—they nonetheless missed their father. They had no news from him. They suspected he turned around Námo to annoy the Vala, entertain himself and pass time.

Once the ale was finished, they stood up.

“Now is time,” had said Wavy Red. “We must go. Whenever. Wherever.”

They went down the hill, mounted their winged horses, and flew. They had a silmaril to find. 

***

Gandalf, Saruman and Radagast glared at each other with deep determination. 

“We may start,” solemnly declared Saruman the White.

Gandalf the Grey shuddered. Radagast the Brown approached confidently. 

Each year, Saruman hosted a staff competition at Isengard with the five wizards. This year, the two blue wizards, Allatar and Pallando (once called ‘Allando and Pallatar’ by Radagast) were missing. The only participants to the contest left were Gandalf, Saruman and Radagast. This last one suggested to invite Sauron, Gothmog, Ossë, Melian, and Eönwë, but as the grey wizard explained, none of them possessed a staff, consequently, they would not qualify. 

This year, they would know who had the longest staff. The previous year, it was the staff with the fanciest ornaments contest—Pallando had won. The three istari put their staffs next to each other. 

“This is it,” stated Gandalf. 

“This is it,” approved Radagast. 

“This cannot be,” opposed Saruman.

“Why not?” innocently enquired the brown wizard.

“Because you cannot win. You are cheating,” decreed the white wizard. 

“I don’t see how I am,” replied Radagast.

“There is a goose on top of your staff. It makes it appear taller than it truly is.”

“Who said the goose is not part of my staff?”

“It is a goose, precisely, not a staff.”

“Has someone tried to take it off?” proposed Gandalf, who was silently watching his colleagues fighting over an ill-tempered bird—it hissed at him when he tried to pet it. 

Saruman looked at Gandalf like he was Eru Ilúvatar himself. “What a fantastic idea!” he exclaimed. He quickly moved towards Radagast’s staff. The goose violently honked at him, but the white istar grandiosely ignored it. He tried to lift it, but the angry bird furiously batted its wings, hissed and bit him. After five minutes of fight and summoning Morgoth’s balrogs, Saruman gave up. 

Gandalf left out a long-resigned sigh, “The goose proved to be part of Radagast’s staff. He wins this year’s contest.” 

While Radagast cheered, the palantír on Saruman’s table emitted a strange sound and shone very bright. A beautiful face of ivory skin crowned by floating white silky hair appeared. 

“Curumo? Curumo, are you here?” chanted a honeyed voice. 

“Is that Mairon?” asked Gandalf.

“His hair was on fire last I saw him,” remarked Radagast. 

“Yes, it’s me,” answered the face in the palantír. “You must call me ‘Annatar’ now.”

“I shall remember,” said Saruman. “Why is that, however?”

“I am on vacations, so I decided I would entertain myself and travel under a fake identity. I now reside with Curufin’s son, Celebrimbor, I am teaching him the art of jewelry. I pretend I am ‘Annatar the Lord of Gift’, a Maia of Aulë,” explained Mairon. 

“This not entirely false,” grinned Saruman, “you go by many names, and you were a Maia of Aulë until you left with Melkor.” 

“Celebrimbor was wary,” conceded the smith, “I succeeded to convince him with a personal anecdote from his childhood. Of course, this was told by his uncle Celegorm when I interrogated him, but I pretexted it was told to me by Aulë, who was told by Mahtan, who was told by Fëanor. He had no choice but to believe me.” 

“Mairon, tell us, do you have a staff?” Radagast appeared behind Saruman and faced the Dark Lord, disrupting the ongoing dialogue. 

“No. My werewolves would eat it,” Mairon raised a brow, confused.

“We had a ‘tallest staff contest’,” replied Saruman to his silent question. “Two participants were missing, and we are looking for new ones.”

“Why are you calling?” interrupted Gandalf. “I thought you were in Mordor with Melkor, guarding his silmarils.”

“I told you I were on vacations. However, I was calling to ask Curumo about said silmarils.”

“Saruman! You wish to ally with the Dark Forces!” accused they grey wizard. 

“No. I am neutral. Technically, I am still under Aulë’s rule, not Manwë’s,” Saruman the White defended himself. “I have no news from the beloved jewels of your master,” he added to Mairon. 

Radagast pulled a face. He looked close to burst in tears. 

“I have a bad feeling…” he gulped. “The ghost of Fëanor escaped Mandos. He bumped into me this morning.”

“Why didn’t you mention it before?” Saruman appeared agitated. 

“I was certain it was the influence of Gandalf’s weed!”

“Do not blame my weed!”

“Gentlemen!” Dark smoke filled the room. The banter was quick to irritate Mairon. “Gentlemen. Please concentrate. If Fëanor has escaped, it means he will search for the silmarils, including the one Lúthien stole from Melkor. He will assemble his former subjects and lead them to war. Fëanáro, not Melkor, it is Gothmog and I who manage the army in Mordor.” The Maia seemed to say something else, but he was interrupted by the goose which was irritated by the smoke and was hissing at it.

“Me thinks Námo kicked him out of his Halls,” muttered Radagast. 

“Regardless,” Mairon rolled his eyes, “Valar might ask for our help. Brace yourselves. Winter is coming. Arda may bleed once more.” He paused then added, “I care not this is the end of winter technically and spring is to be at the door soon, it is a speech figure.” 

“Did you converse with Fëanor?” Saruman gazed intensively at Radagast.

“No. He looked at me, grumbled ‘oops’ before flying away into the air,” answered the brown wizard. 

Mairon scratched his head, “I shall leave now, and reflect on these… alarming news. I must make plans. Do not hesitate to contact me,” he said to Saruman. “Aiwendil, Olórin,” he nodded them goodbye and vanished from the palantír, bringing the black clouds away with him. 

“Do we tell Manwë?” 

“What for? What might he do? Tell his brother not to tear the world in two? This never proved to be an efficient peace keeping method.” 

“There is something you must be aware of…” slowly articulated Gandalf. “The stolen silmaril was in my possession…”

“Was? What about now?” Radagast never reached such high notes before.

“I no longer have it; this is usually what the use of the past tense specifies.”

“Gandalf, for Ulmo’s sake,” groaned Saruman. 

“I gave it to the only Elda who isn’t burnt at its touch, excluding Fëanor.”

“Splendid,” whined Radagast. “Be prepared for another world war. I understand why Allatar and Pallando disappeared Manwë-knows-where…” The goose softly honked in approval.

Saruman massaged his temples. He only wanted to win this year’s competition, not to worry with celestial matters. 

He wondered why Gandalf looked oddly smug. 

***

Annatar put the palantír in his bag elegantly adorned with embroidery. He placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands. He only wanted to know about the silmaril. Ponder on it later. Have a good time in the Misty Mountains. Explore the Moria under construction, soon to be finished. Study Dwarvish architecture. Make Celebrimbor join his ranks. He heard the door open.

“Annatar! There you are, I was looking for you!” Celebrimbor entered. He noticed the Maia’s grim expression, “Is something the matter?”

“How would you know if I were preoccupied?”

“There is dark smoke around you.” It generally was an indicator of Annatar’s mood. This last one found nothing to refute it. 

“Come,” smiled the Elda, “the Dwarves baked ginger cookies.” 

The Ainu instantly stood up, a bright expression on his face, and trotted after Celebrimbor.

When Annatar was happy, shiny golden dust waltzed around him.

***

Celebrimbor softly exhaled. Going to the baths after an exhaustive day of work was what he preferred the most. Annatar hummed next to him, playing with a small wooden boat toy an elfling gave to him. The Ñoldo opened his eyes. The water suddenly felt considerably hotter. 

“Annatar,” he said, “you are getting excited again.”

“What?” The Maia looked between his legs, offended. “No, I’m not!”

“I did not mean it this way, sicko. The water is turning into lava.”

“Oh…” Annatar closed his eyes and concentrated. 

“It’s back to normal now, thank you. Tell me what was on your mind.”

A pause.

“Tyelpë…” purred the Lord of Gifts, “you and I are going to make the greatest rings of Middle Earth.”

***

“If I understand correctly, the ghost of my grandfather was released from Mandos and is now crawling Námo-knows-where in Middle Earth?”

A nod.

“Why do you _always_ tell me the important information a week after I asked you if there were something that worried you? What is wrong with you Maiar?”

Annatar had the decency to look somewhat guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wavy Red: Maedhros  
> Straight Brown: Maglor  
> Wavy Grey: Celegorm  
> Wavy Brown: Caranthir  
> Straight Black: Curufin  
> First Straight Red: Amrod  
> Second Straight Red: Amras
> 
> The meme of Chapter I: "The floor is made out of floor."  
> Lemme know in the comments if you found it and other memes. Answers will be given next chapter for this one (I'll always work like this to keep some suspense, dun dun dun. Hopefully I won't accidentally forget and skip one woops)
> 
> Fret not, for Thrandy shall return next chapter.


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oropher's logic is Captain Obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank being confined, my level of productivity is high.

For the two thousand and fourth time since the morning, Thranduíl released a heavy sigh. For once it was him who was sighing, and not someone else from his snarky remarks. 

He sighed again at this thought. 

The Prince, after two weeks of intensive training with the best of Eryn Galen’s military, was ready to fulfill his mission, which he sadly did not ask for. ‘Intensive’ what was he convinced himself, for he mostly executed the same acrobatics and gymnastics he usually did, this time with a back bag filled with rocks. He understood the gravity of the situation, sadly for him. He revolted. He snarled. He cursed. Fëanor, Sauron, Morgoth, Manwë, Yavanna, Eru. It often resulted in angry bush kicking in the forest. His anguish was such that Oropher allowed Lindir to sleep with him if it could calm him down—King Oropher who protected his son like a chicken mother! It did not affect the Prince very much, unfortunately. 

Thankfully, Gandalf predicted it and left for him an exhaustive list of herbs and plants to use for all situations: anger, stress, muscular atrophy, stimulants, narcotics, constipation, diarrhea, und so weiter.

A knock at the door put a stop to the Prince’s acute analysis of his herbal equipment. 

“Ada,” simply said Thranduíl.

Oropher leaned against the doorframe, “I can see you are ready.” There was a bag on the floor that contained all Thranduíl’s necessary belongings. It was a magic bag given by Mithrandir. Its size was average, but the bag could contain a lot than it appeared without weighting heavy.

“Never enough, I suppose.”

“We never are fully ready.”

“That is false. I am always ready to make a new brand of wine.”

“You indeed are. I received commissions from Harad. Your Dorwinion has a strong reputation,” smiled the King.

“Oh?” Thranduíl jerked his head up in interest. “What did you reply?”

“Nothing.”

The Prince looked disappointed.

“I received the letter this morning,” justified Oropher. “I first needed to feed their giant blue parrot that was exhausted by the trip. I also have a son who has to save Middle Earth to worry about, don’t I?” He entered in his son’s room and unbuckled his belt. Thranduíl noticed there were two swords hanging on it. 

“There. These are for you,” the monarch gave the belt to his son.

“Thank you…,” the Sinda was touched. “Why two, though?”

“You have two arms and two hands, don’t you?”

“Yes. What kind of question is that?”

“Moreover, if you lose one, you have another left.”

Thranduíl looked at his father, intrigued.

“Losing a sword,” precised Oropher. “I reckon this would work in the case you loose a hand, you have the second one, however, two swords for only one hand is rather inconvenient.”

An expression of disgust was drawn on the Prince’s face, “I shall keep my two hands!”

“You have so little wish to resemble Maedhros?” mocked his father. 

Thranduíl stared at his father like he was an accomplished moron. He directed his attention to his swords after putting the belt around his waist. The Woodland Elf did series of jumps and acrobatics. An expression of questioning and mild interest was drawn on Oropher’s face. 

“It’s, erh, quality control.” Which was. Thranduíl would not bring with him these swords if they proved to be in the way—or in his legs, more literally—when it would be time to engage in combat against trolls, wargs, or imbecile Ñoldor. 

“These are from Doriath, aren’t they?” asked the Prince in an attempt to regain his newly lost dignity. 

“They are,” answered Oropher. He came into the room and sat on the bed. Thranduíl rejoined and sat next to him. 

“Ada…,” he hesitantly began.

“What is it, penneth?”

“Couldn’t the Eagles do it? Drop the rock in Mount Doom.”

“Their sense of orientation is atrocious. They need Mithrandir to guide them.”

“Is that so? I am certain he would not object going with them, he has experience in Eagle riding.”

“Unfortunately for us, Manwë has other plans for the grey wizard,” Oropher twisted his lips.

“Could not Manwë go?” 

“The silmarils burnt Morgoth. They would burn Manwë as well.”

“Morgoth crafted a crown,” pointed Thranduíl.

“He is very determined, if not to say ‘obstinate’,” shrugged the sovereign, “Morgoth is ready to loose everything at any cost to satisfy his lust.”

“Perhaps Manwë is lazy. I should have prayed Elbereth to kick him in the you-guess-where.”

Oropher patted his son on the back. He too was not eager to see him go. No father desired to know their children run to their death. 

“I don’t want to go…,” softly whined Thranduíl, taking his head between his hands. 

The King drew large circles with his hand on his son’s back. He was aware the Prince only manifested a wish to travel to far East Rhûn or Harad. Valinor itself wore little interest to him. He dearly missed his naneth but would stay to protect Greenwood if necessary. If it meant to witness the sun stop burning, so be it. The Prince additionally frequently ignored tasks he did not wish to accomplish.

Thranduíl loved procrastinating so much he could put to the next day passing by the Hall of Mandos. 

“Lindir has to leave tomorrow, whether you like it or not…”

“I know.” Thranduíl sounded more than resigned. He suddenly felt a strong arm embrace him. He closed his eyes and let himself be rocked by his Ada.

***

“I can’t believe you are coming with me,” Lindir told Thranduíl. Both were waiting in the entrance hall of the palace to say goodbye to Oropher and be escorted outside Eryn Galen.

“I am indeed,” smiled the Sinda. He had his magic bag on his back, plus an enormous one filled with presents and local Greenwood specialties, courtesy of King Oropher, that he carried for his friend. Lindir, on his side, looked like he was ready to go on a camping expedition. 

Thranduíl’s smile faded, “I hope King Gil-galad will not ask me why it is impossible for him to rule Greenwood…” 

Lindir patted his shoulder, “He may. Simply don’t bite him. I am unfamiliar with the political tensions between the two realms—I pay little attention to his rants—but I doubt he will bring the subject on the table. We have more pressing matters to worry about, haven’t we?”

The Prince’s eyes opened wide. He gasped.

“Thranduíl. Have you forgotten the silmaril?”

Cold sweat ran down his spine. He paled. 

“Shitty Gothmog.” 

Lindir blinked in surprise. A member of the royal family cursing never was a good sign. Thranduíl touched his lower stomach. He exhaled and relaxed his shoulders. 

“I-I…” he stuttered, “I thought I forgot it. It’s there. Sweet Elbereth, false alert.”

“Did you hide the silmaril in your stomach?” Lindir was very suspicious.

“On, not in, I do not wish to eat it every day and do… what is needed to be done to retrieve it the next day. There is a clothed belt under my shirt to keep the rock in place.”

“ ‘Rock’,” scoffed the Ñoldo, “I suppose putting it in your pocket was too much of hard work.”

“It is very risky, mellon nîn,” supplied Thranduíl, “it can easily fall down or be stolen. I would feel it if somebody brushes their filthy hands on my body. It is the safest place.” 

The bard nodded. The Prince was not entirely devoid of logic. Sometimes. The Sinda explained that in Greenwood, people must develop many strategies in order to be able to tell from friend to foe, since the kingdom was subject of cohabitation with Morgoth’s creatures and refugees from Mordor. They frequently traded with Men from Dale, Laketown and Rhûn, they had to ensure none of them would ally with the Enemy. This resulted in the enhanced use of creativity and imagination, hence the undershirt belt.

The King entered in the hall. 

“Come with me, my lovelies.” He confidently led the way. The King had new coffee from Harad this morning, which improved his mood. 

They penetrated in the woods. Lindir had no idea how they never found themselves lost. All the trees looked the same to him! He also would never become accustomed to Wood Elves mimicking animals’ sounds and successfully communicating with them. Gil-galad had once disdainfully said even the most refined Sindar were “indigenised”. Lindir agreed but kept it to himself. The Silvan Elves of Eryn Galen had this je-ne-sais-quoi wilder than their contemporaries from Lothlorien. Was it the higher percentage of Avari blood? The Noldo could not tell. However, good luck assaulting the kingdom when trees had ears, he thought with a grin slightly drawn on his lips. Plus, green and brown skins decidedly were a great camouflage asset. He almost fell on his butt when he met his first green-skinned Elda. “Don’t be surprised if I tell you Morgoth, Ulmo and his Maiar have scales in lieu of skin,” had mocked Thranduil. He knew most of Woodelves had brown hair and hazelnut eyes, but green skin? 

After a certain time, Oropher led them to what appeared to be a small clearing. 

“You will mount them until you reach the border,” gestured the King, pointing the animals in front of them. 

Lindir’s mouth hang open. He heard his jaw crack at some point. What were these animals? They were massive, brown, considerably taller than the Prince and the King themselves! If they stepped on him, there would be nothing left but a Lindir jam. 

An elleth walked up to them with some of the beasts obediently following her. 

“We are ready, your Majesty,” she said, after saluting them the Greenwood way, which was to cross arms on your chest for a few seconds. 

“Excellent. Will you allow me an instant with my son?”

“Of course.” She nodded to Thranduíl who nodded back. 

“Go with her,” he commanded to Lindir. “The bison won’t eat you. They are herbivores.”

Lindir gulped. It slightly reassured him. These monsters were called bison! 

“Shelob bites, but I ordered her not to bite you,” added Thranduil. 

“Thank you very much, Prince?” hesitated the Ñoldo. 

“She knows I shall bite her back if she does, and I bite harder,” stated the Prince. 

“Huh…” eloquently put the bard. 

“What you do with Shelob is none’s business,” grunted Oropher. 

“Maybe,” his son shrugged. He smiled at Lindir encouragely. This last one reluctantly followed the elleth. That is, if she were an elleth. Something about her grey skin, her raven black hair and her dark red eyes was off settling. Perhaps she was an Urûk refugee Thranduíl had previously mentioned? He cried of terror when a bison curiously sniffed his hair. 

Oropher and Thranduíl observed the scene with amusement.

“Will he survive?” wondered the King.

“No,” answered the Prince.

“No?”

“No.”

“Poor thing. He has not seen _him_ yet.”

“We will be riding _him_ ? Really?”

“Yes. I negotiated with him last week, helped by Shelob. Mithrandir told him a few words as well. It is faster to pass through the Misty Mountains by the air,” explained Oropher. 

“I suppose he listens to Maiar more,” shrugged his son.

“He certainly does when he faces a hairy eight-legged one,” grinned the Elvenking. 

“Being the daughter of Ungoliant comes with its advantages,” supplied Thranduíl. “However, I am afraid Lindir will faint.”

“Shelob will remain under her elleth form until you depart. It is better for her sake other Eldarin realms remain in the ignorance concerning her existence,” interrupted the monarch. 

“Oh, I know she will, I know her. I was talking about _him._ ”

“Ah… Then yes, your sensitive-hearted mellon may feel his fëa escape for a while.”

“You can be sure I will jump on the occasion to install him on his back. Lindir shall not be in position to protest if he is unconscious,” smirked the Woodland Prince. 

“I’m afraid this is not exactly how consent works, but for the sake of Arda…,” started Oropher. He paused and looked at the bison casually walking here and there on the field. He suddenly had remembered why they were here, after all. 

“Ada?”

He turned back to his son, rested his hands on his shoulders and hugged him closed. Thranduil returned the embrace. 

“Even if Námo calls me, I will be back. His will against mine,” promised the Prince. He felt his father chuckle against his chest. 

“Penneth, if you are capable of domesticating wild giant spiders, I am certain you are capable of convincing a Vala to send you back.”

Oropher was looking at him in the eyes now. 

“The Spirits of the woods shall accompany you on your quest. Go.”

Thranduíl went. 

They rode for approximately three days before reaching the border. Lindir slowly realised bison were wild creatures, but would not harm him if they were respected and properly fed. They—the bison, not Thranduíl and Lindir, although...--recognised Shelob as the dominant figure and followed her commands. He wondered why there was no other escort with them. Thranduil had mentioned Shelob alone was more than necessary. Nonetheless, he could not wait to be back to Imladris, which wildlife was a few deers, marmots, some birds and squirrels at most. Nothing like those… bison, and white tigers he saw from afar in Greenwood. The Woodland realm was another world. Oh, and the spiders! The trolls! He feared for his mental sanity when Thranduíl told him some spiders were domesticated and their venom and web were used in the making of clothing and weaponry (poisoned arrows were not exclusive to Orcs). He added troll’s leather was very valuable, waterproof and thick, this was why the Greenwood inhabitants favoured leather armours over metal ones. 

Dear Elbereth, quite the cultural shock it was! No matter what he claimed, Gil-galad would never succeed to rule over these Eldar. Not to mention the Sindar of Greenwood had legitimate reasons to not be enamored of the Ñoldor… Nevertheless, Lindir was more than happy he tried falafels, Rhûnin rum, Dorwinion wine and experienced wild camping. 

After gazing at the Misty Mountains for a while—he had not realised how far they had travelled—he wondered why the scenery stopped moving. Oh, right, the bison had stopped, he shook his head and made fun of his stupidity. Why had they stopped moving, though? He was aware no portal would suddenly pop in front of them. Perhaps Mithrandir would fall from the sky? Who knew how wizards moved around…? He jerked his head up.

Oh Valar.

A giant shadow passed by. A giant bat with a long tail. No. A giant lizard. With bat wings. 

It landed.

A dragon. 

Lindir fell from his bison—Thranduíl caught him. Having predicted it, the Sinda went down his own bison a few minutes ago. Lindir’s bisons emitted a growl at him but didn’t move. The Prince gently rocked him (Lindir, not the bison), “Lindir, it’s alright, I’m here, stay with me, breathe, yes, like that, breathe my friend, breathe.” The Ñoldo directed his concentration on the Sinda’s low voice. He felt ready to stand on his feet after a few minutes. His body trembled. 

“I can’t,” he weakly whispered.

“Smaug will not eat anyone today. He accepted to fly us beyond the mountains. It is safer and quicker this way.” 

Lindir searched for madness in the eyes of his friend, yet there was none to be found. He noticed the dragon was conversing with Shelob. A hand covered his shoulder.

“Come,” Thranduíl encouraged him, “let’s properly get acquainted with Smaug. He knows me, but he doesn’t know you. His nose will be close to you, I warn you. He recognises people by their smell. You hear those strong clicks?”

The bard nodded. He had noticed this weird sound before. He had told himself it was his mind coping with the shock of riding a bison. Or facing a dragon. Or the combination of both. 

“It is called ‘echolocation’,” explained the Prince, “he uses sounds in order to see. Yes, he sees with his eyes, however he sees better with the clicks. No, it is not because of Mithrandir’s weed or the hallucinogenic mushrooms you consumed weeks ago.” 

Lindir swallowed. He was going to travel in the sky on a dragon who sniffed and saw with sounds, no less. 

Glorfindel would never believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Smaug won't fly them to Mordor like a Uber dragon, it'd be boring, I don't want my story to end there lol
> 
> Memes from Chap 2: "Brace yourselves, winter is coming" & "whenever, wherever"
> 
> I did an experiment with Word and wrote "Frodo ate Aragorn, Arwen, Elrond, Éomer, Théoden, Éowyn, Faramir, Boromir, Denethor, Pippin, Bilbo, Legolas, Gimli." It didn't recognise Éomer, Éowyn and Faramir. It also recognises Saruman, Gandalf and Sauron as legit names (and Eryn Galen for some reason?).


	4. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindir chokes on his saliva, accompanied by Thranduíl's bisexual awakening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having a crush on Glorfindel? Now is your day to shine.

“I cannot believe you sent Erestor to The Singing Squash,” chuckled Glorfindel.

“You know what they say,” grinned Gandalf, “modern problems require modern solutions.” 

“He rarely ventures to the near-by human village, even less hostels.” 

Glorfindel sat on the chair next to the grey wizard. This last one arrived a week ago in Imladris, announcing Lindir shall arrive soon with a surprise. If being accompanied by the Prince of Eryn Galen could be called a ‘surprise’, it revealed to be a shock to the High King of the Ñoldor, who believed Oropher sent his son in order to declare war. He had not listened when Mithrandir explained he had a silmaril and it must be cast into the fire. Only Glorfindel, Erestor and Elrond understood the emergency of the situation. Elrond, when the King calmed down, had privately discussed the matter with him. The conversation had started with “You know, once upon a time, your great uncle Fëanor” and had ended with “The Prince could swallow the silmaril if he wanted without being harmed, this is why he will carry it to Mount Doom and it is of our responsibility to aid him.” Gil-galad then had snorted, “How?” to which Elrond had more or less subtlety reminded the King under their roof resided a Balrogslayer who may or may not be Vanya, and who may or may not had been accustomed to the way of the Ainur. Which came in handy with celestial matters. Gil-galad conceded. Elrond himself was wise and convincing, but nothing could reach the density of a wizard making morbid historical references at dinner, including the Discord of the Music (“I was there when it happened! I do not remember much, I was nothing but a stammered little note, nevertheless, I was a witness.”)

Mithrandir did not lose a second to expose his plan, “We send Glorfindel with Thranduíl, you at Imladris prepare an army, Galadriel and Celeborn are securing their borders already, we alert Mannish Kingdoms and renew alliances with them. Ah, could one of you reach Celebrimbor. His grandfather escaped from Mandos. The power of Morgoth will prevent the Nazgûls to fight alongside their father, but Fëanor is of a noisy nature, we may need to look for the trouble he’s up to. For the love of Nienna, stay on your guards, Sauron is hidden and ready to appear, well, when he desires to. His timing is always inconvenient for the peace of Middle Earth, I shall say.” 

Gandalf did not have the heart to tell them Sauron was on vacation. Certain things must remain between Ainur exclusively. 

“We need Erestor to be at The Singing Squash in a week to welcome Lindir and Thranduíl.” 

“Why me?” had opposed the concerned one. “Why not Glorfindel or waiting for them to come?”

“Glorfindel needs all the time that is required to leave his directions to the military before he departs. You are physically more discreet than him. Elrond is required to stay with Gil-galad and practice meditation before the Sinda Prince penetrates his halls. Oh, and Thranduíl does not know the way to come to Rivendell.”

“Lindir does,” Gil-galad had reminded Gandalf.

The wizard looked like he didn’t know whether he wanted to mentally slap himself or do it literally. 

“The bridge Lindir rode on to go to Greendwood burnt last week,” Glorfindel had pointed out. “I doubt he knows of the secret path to access Imladris.”

Gandalf had patted Glorfindel on the shoulder. 

“I do not see why I am required to take meditation lessons,” had growled Gil-galad.

“My Lord, you are fuming. Yes, you do,” had humorlessly replied Elrond. He was his herald, the Healer Master of Rivendell, as well as the King’s personal therapist. He knew everything of his King (or almost, Elrond had little interest to know how many bites it took Gil-galad to eat a turkey sandwich.)

The wizard had pulled a face. Oropher proved to be easier to deal with. The Woodland King could doubtlessly be described as ‘stubborn’--the understatement of the millennium, had thought Gandalf, and to say his son was worse! –at least he would not hide in denial from his primary emotions.

Erestor had departed with a letter from Gandalf to Thranduíl in hand. The librarian did not feel qualified to defend himself in case of danger. Glorfindel lightly said an encyclopaedia violently landing on one’s head proved to be fatal. Of course, the Captain had not talk from experience, of course not. He nevertheless gave the scholar a sword.

Now in the boudoir with Mithrandir, the Vanya stretched his legs in front of him and sighed of contentment. Spice was needed in his life; he could take any challenge. 

He was curious to meet this Prince whose beauty was praised and sung. 

***

“I sense… something,” declared Maglor. 

“I do too,” said Amras.

“Me too,” said Maedhros.

Caranthir grunted. A positive grunt, this time. 

“Oh Valar, they discovered what it’s like to have five senses,” snorted Curufin, which made Amrod chuckle. 

Maedhros made a face at his younger brothers, a face Men of Arda would describe as “bruh” in the course of the Sixth Age. Curufin pulled his most seductive smile, the same smile Fëanor used when he tried to get what he wanted. These two looked more like each other than Amrod looked like Amras, remarked Maedhros silently. No wonder Celebrimbor looked the same as Finwë. Finwëian genes ran strong in the family. 

“Something in front of me is pulling me. There is this strange force telling me where to go,” Maglor glanced at the distance. “We must follow this way.”

“Brilliant,” argued Curufin, “what if your horse decided to turn right? Would the sensation remain in front of you? If I were you, I would be careful not to trip in the ocean.”  
“He is right,” agreed Amrod, “sensations are nonsensical, in the second meaning of the thing, of course.” 

Curufin nodded at his brother. He knew he could not count on Celegorm to make use of reason and strategy for this one—it was Celegorm’s fault they were riding to the Misty Mountains, because he would not allow Sauron being in the presence of Celebrimbor. They had no idea where Sauron really was, to start with… It was nothing, but the possessiveness of the third child of Fëanor that led them. Thankfully, Amrod demonstrated many times he could make good use of his brain. 

“What if we turned around,” proposed Maedhros, “so, we could see where the force is.”

His brothers, minus Curufin and Amrod, drank his words like he was a prophet. Maitimo always had the solution to everything! 

Maglor and Celegorm first turned on themselves, followed by Maedhros, Caranthir and Amras. They exclaimed, “It pulls by behind!” Amrod looked at Curufin, “So it must be true then?” 

“Yes…,” murmured his brother. This last one turned around. “They did not lie,” he addressed Amrod. 

“I’m glad we can follow the sensation,” cheered Amras, “all this south, east, right, left, it confuses me every time. This is much simpler.”

“The North is always up in the sky,” supplied Caranthir, “it never changes.”

Celegorm looked at him with pity. He never understood how Moryo was smart enough to invent the system of taxes—until he discovered Melkor was the brain behind economics, but he had no contact with the Dark Lord prior to their submission to his will, Carnistir could benefit from a minimum of recognition—but not smart enough to understand cardinal points. Mayhap not everyone had the chance to be enlightened by a Vala, Celegorm mused. He missed Oromë. 

Amrod looked like he had swallowed a poisoned lemon. The stupidity of people was beyond him. Telvo can judge, thought Celegorm, but he doesn’t know the order of the alphabet by heart. 

Maglor clapped his hands, “It’s all settled then. We continue to move further East. It ought to be the silmaril.”

“How do you know it is east,” articulated Caranthir very seriously. “Is it because we stay on the ground?”

Maglor glanced at him with curiosity. 

The Nazgûls rode East. Their winged horses refused to fly anyways. 

***

“Erestor must have reached the Mannish village by now,” said Glorfindel, comfortably laying on the couch, closely hugging against his heart his favourite pillow. He, Gandalf, Gil-galad and Elrond spent most of their evenings in the boudoir together, drinking tea, reading, playing cards, or simply relaxing. 

“If my calculation is correct,” said Gandalf from his rocking chair that was next to the fire, “Prince Thranduíl and Lindir should arrive to The Singing Squash after-tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hopefully Erestor won’t be lost buried under hundreds of books, who knows what might happen when he’ll find out the village has a library,” grumbled Gil-galad. 

“Ereinion, Erestor is a responsible person,” scolded Glorfindel. 

The wizard glanced at the King with “It is not me who said it this time” written on his forehead. Elrond, next to him, pretended he was not there. 

“Say, Mithrandir,” wondered Glorfindel, “did you write a note to the Prince that Erestor was indeed sent by you and not an impostor?”

“I did,” answered Gandalf. “Anyhow, Lindir is with him. Lindir knows Erestor, doesn’t he?”

The balrogslayer hummed. There was something he… 

“Did not Oropher build a reputation in Doriath and in Eryn Galen for telling Morgoth’s spies apart from other Eldar?”

“Yes, he did,” it took all the good will of the world to make Gil-galad accept that the Woodland King had abilities, but he gave people merit when merit was due. 

“I heard Greenwood breeds giant spiders and wargs, and accepts Urûk refugees,” continued Glorfindel. “It requires a lot of skills and trials to be able to make your former enemy join your side, not to mention Morgoth sent his creatures to invade Eryn Galen a few decades ago. Thranduíl is Oropher’s only heir. He taught him everything for certain.” The warrior placed the pillow under his head and folded his arms. “I’m sorry Mithrandir, but Lindir’s presence will change nothing to Thranduil’s doubts. There is nothing more suspicious than a stranger saying he was sent by a wizard with no legitimate proof. He doesn’t know your handwriting.”

“Are you saying,” slowly repeated Gil-galad, “that the Prince might refuse to follow Erestor?”

“Yes.”

Gil-galad took his head between his hands. He was at two fingers, quite literally, to pull his hair. 

“Lindir does not know that the wooden bridge isn’t there anymore, neither does he know another way to come to Imladris.” The voice of the High King cried of discouragement. 

Gandalf chewed his pipe. Going to Valinor and ask help to the Eagles would take too much time. He could not think of another solution. 

Elrond, who finally decided the conversation was worth paying attention, opened his mouth for the first time of the evening, “Why not going to The Singing Squash? Gandalf could go with Glorfindel.” 

“Why? I can go alone, I am more capable than Glorfindel to defend myself,” sulked Gandalf. 

“I know. If you arrive at a Mannish village alone, you will appear defenceless, and an easy target for robbers. It would be very odd for an old man to suddenly fight like an Elda. Our weapon is discretion. The Seven travel everywhere and collect all the information they can.”

“You are aware I possess the power to change one’s memory and emotions, hm?” 

Elrond did not answer. He had forgotten. 

“I shall come,” decreed Glorfindel. He wanted to say he missed drinking with Men, but revised himself, having caught Gil-galad’s knowing glance, “My horse enjoys longer rides. He grows bored when lacking proper stimulation.” It was not false per say, but at this very moment, his horse was content to stay around Rivendell and did not require supplementary exercising. Gil-galad nodded. 

The warrior stood up.

“I’m going to take a nap. Wake me up when it will be time to leave.”

***

“Those seats and harnesses are the inventions of the century,” smugly exclaimed Thranduíl, after landing on the ground. Lindir was more or less convinced on his side. The moment he became comfortable with being on a dragon’s back, Smaug made aerial figures, both because he wanted to amuse himself, and because Thranduíl asked him to. Being alive in one piece was all that mattered to Lindir. 

“Go to the Mannish nearest village on the west, Gandalf sent someone for you at a place called The Singing Squash,” informed the dragon. Lindir trembled. The voice was so strong it resonated in his guts. He mentally took note to never enter in a verbal fight with a dragon. He knew from history Smaug was small compared to others of his kin… The tiny gecko lizards he saw at Gondor were the limit of what he could handle. 

The Prince exchanged a few words with Smaug before the creature opened his wings and took off. At least he is graceful, thought Lindir, I cannot say the same of some birds I saw at Imladris. 

“Why can’t he take you to Mordor?” enquired Lindir.

“He is Morgoth’s child. They are bounded, he would feel it. He may have told the Dark Lord what we are doing. Shelob told me Smaug pays no interest to the silmarils themselves, he has his own interests, which I do not know of.”

“I see… Where is the west?” wondered the Ñoldo.

“Uh…” Thranduíl searched for something in his pockets. “Ha! I have it!” A compass. He stared at it for a few seconds before pointing in front of them. They both saw there was a village in the horizon, thanks to their Elven eyes. 

After walking for what seemed to be eight eternities (four hours to be precise, but Lindir was deeply fantasising about being in his bed as soon as possible, and grew impatient and irritable), they entered the village. “Welcome to Rivendell’s Neighbours” it said at the entrance. Men certainly did have humour. To Thranduíl’s annoyance, villagers stared at him. The Elves from Imladris were no strangers to them, however, the Prince’s ivory skin and pale silver hair were unusual. A merchant recognised Lindir and greeted him—according to Thranduíl, she physically threatened him. Lindir explained that humans sometimes overflowed with affection, but they merely wanted to hug people they missed. The Sinda retorded he was in frequent contacts with Men from Laketown and Rhûn, and none of them literally jumped on someone as a greeting. 

Lindir confidently led the way to The Singing Squash. The owner made great arm gestures when he saw the Ñoldo enter the inn. “Are Men here always this expressive here,” grumbled Thranduil, who obviously affectionated the stern Easterlings more. He missed his gateway to the East, where he made wine in the region of Dorwinion. 

“Lord Lindir, my dear, it has been a while since I last saw you,” enthusiastically said the owner.

“I gather you come here often,” grinned Thranduíl to his friend.

“He does! Captain Glorfindel too. Nights are quite animated in their presence,” happily replied the Man. “And you are…?”

“I’m me.”

“Thran-,” started Lindir, rolling his eyes. 

“You can call me ‘Greenleaf’,” smiled the Prince. “What should I call you, sir?” He presented his hand to the Man in the way of the people of Laketown. 

The Man considered the Sinda’s hand, surprised an Elf would be familiar with Mannish manners. He firmly shook it, “I’m Robert, but my regulars nickname me ‘Ar-Pharazôn’,” he winked.

“Why is that?” 

“Oh, you know, I tend to rant against Sauron a lot, and that I would kidnap him if I could…” 

Thranduíl grinned. Sauron was a good topic to complain about. He noticed the inn owner was staring at him. 

“What are the products you use in Rivendell to make your skin and your hair this pale?”

“I beg your pardon?” A black eyebrow was raised in the most Thranduílesque way. 

Lindir choked on his saliva. 

“Yes. None of the Elves I’ve met had such a colour. Captain Glorfindel is different, he looks like he swallowed the sun and shines from within. Lord Lindir explained me the Captain is very very old and from another race of Elves, but you, you don’t shine. Well. You do because you reflect light like water, but…,” Robert paused to reflect on what he would say next. “You don’t seem like the kind who would _glow in the dark._ ” 

“My dear Man, I can assure you I use nothing make my appearance the way it is.”

“Are you certain this isn’t some sort of sorcery?”

“But no… I was born this way.” 

Lindir took the situation in hand before Robert could ask any other silly question, “Why don’t you serve us a drink, Ar-Pharazôn?” 

“Of course! What can I get you?” 

“Whisky for me,” said Thranduíl. “Your finest. The whole bottle, if you please.”

The bartender glanced at him, “I am not sure this is a good idea…” 

“I am an Elf. Alcohol does not affect me like it affects Men.”

“But Lord Lindir…”

“He is a special case.”

The concerned one muttered a grumpy “thank you for preserving my dignity.” Money rolled on the table. A smile shone on the Prince’s face. Robert froze. “Your friend is very persuasive,” he whispered to Lindir before going to another room. He went back with two bottles. 

“The first one is caramelised, the second is smoky,” the inn owner presented the bottles to Thranduil. 

Disbelief, discouragement and amusement were drawn on his face, “Are they seriously named ‘Gandalf’ and ‘Saruman’?” Lindir choked on his saliva again. 

“Incredible, you can read Westron,” grinned Robert. He discovered during the next seconds that glare could indeed kill. Years later, Lindir would reveal him he had it from his father, the famous Elvenking Oropher, whose expanding kingdom was beyond the mountain range close to the village. The bartender would mutter he found that ‘Greenleaf’ had a face of someone who did not need to talk to be obeyed. 

“Ok, then. Yes, they are named ‘Gandalf’ and ‘Saruman’. They commissioned it to a famous whisky brewer in the north,” the Man sheepishly explained. 

The Prince’s lips moved into a smirk, “Gandalf it is. I assume I gave you enough money?”

“Yes. In fact, I should return you the difference, you paid more than required.”

“Keep it, my good man. You endure Lindir when he drinks, you deserve a reward.”

“He and Captain Glorfindel make the business run,” amicably said Robert while he poured whisky in two glasses. He chose to ignore the Ñoldo who was making indignant noises. 

“Gentlemen,” he added, “Lord Erestor waits for you upstairs. Take the stairs to the back of the pub. The room number is 666.” He winked to the bard, “I did not let him drink this time, I knew it could end in catastrophe.”

Lindir and Robert exchanged a few words before saying ‘goodbye’. The Man waved to Thranduíl who bowed his head. 

“’Greenleaf’,” started the Ñoldo, “very stereotypical of a Silvan. Robert is not stupid, you are too fair to be Avari, your fake name will not work.”

“Using my real name is dangerous. I cannot risk my safety with the Seven roaming around,” said his friend. They climbed up the stairs. His eyes were distant. “Mellon nîn, pray tell… This Robert, does he do archery?” 

“I don’t know,” shrugged Lindir, intrigued. “Why is that?” 

“He… nothing.” 

Reminiscence weighted heavy on his heart. 

They found room 666 rather quickly. What a number, mentally mumbled Thranduíl, why not picking 45,632 for the sake of it. 

A shadow sitting on the single bed of the room, was absorbed in the reading of an enormous about Ents, or something of the kind, the Prince failed to catch everything because Lindir exclaimed, “Erestor! I have missed you!” 

The Elda, a Ñoldo by appearance, noticed Thranduíl, closed the book and stood from the bed. Thranduíl put his whisky glass on the nightstand but kept the bottle in his hand. He opened it and drank, while his friend was saluting the Ñoldo. Erestor turned in his direction, “Prince Thranduíl.” He placed his hand to his heart and bowed. “I have a letter for you from Mithrandir.” Thranduíl took it, but did not look at it. 

“How can we be sure you are sent by Mithrandir and your King, and not an impostor?” questioned the Sinda. 

“Thranduíl!” interjected Lindir. “I know him, I can tell you he is Erestor!” 

“I care not. There are shapeshifters in this world, excellent spies too. Do you know how easy it is for Morgoth to change the appearance of his subjects?” 

“He was sent by Mithrandir!”

“Lindir, anyone beyond the bare maximum of stupidity would use this excuse. ‘I was sent by Glaurung’ rises suspicion from the start.” 

Erestor slowly raised his hands. Glorfindel warned him Sindar were more stubborn than Dwarves, yet nothing prepared him for this level of paranoia. “I can assure you, my Prince,” he articulated, “that I was indeed sent by Mithrandir and the King Gil-galad himself.” 

Thranduil stared, “Guide us to Imladris. Now.”

Lindir groaned and pulled his friend’s sleeve, “I am tired, I need to rest.”

“No. He could murder you in your sleep.”

“Stay awake and protect me?”

“No. The sooner we arrive at Imladris, the better.”

“But-”

“ _No._ ” 

The Prince remembered all of a sudden there were two swords hanging on his waist. Next thing Erestor knew is that he was leading them to Rivendell, Lindir on his horse. Thranduíl chose to walk, taking a sip from his whisky bottle from time to time. The possibility of armed threats was rather efficient. 

***

“I sense it.”

“I feel it.”

“Brothers, near by the village…”

“I can see them. They are three.

“The Sinda! He is a Prince, isn’t he? There is something around him…”

“He has it.”

“He does.”

“The silmaril… it’s calling us…”

“Morgoth’s magic proves to works better than Atto’s Oath.”

“It does. Ride, brothers, ride! For the death of the Prince!” 

***

“The Seven! They are after us!” screamed Erestor. Seven shadows dangerously came towards them, being closer each second.

Thranduíl quickly shove Lindir down and attached their bags on the horse’ back. He gave it brief commands before clapping its buttock. The animal ran away.

“To the woods, hurry up!” 

“Prince, this is madness! They will trap us!”

“We need branches. We are Eldar, we can summon fire, don’t we? We make a torch and we use as a sword.” 

They ran. Once in the forest, Lindir cried, “Thranduil, climb in the trees! They cannot go high!”

“How will you fight?”

“I have knives. Erestor and I will do what we can. You must think of the silmaril. Go!”

The Sinda hurried. Erestor whistled, “What they say is true; Wood Elves climb better than they walk.” 

“Erestor, please, focus, we’re going to die,” moaned Lindir. 

The Black Knights were in front of them.

The two Ñoldor rushed forward. Blades were swung. Horses neighed. Lindir cried, Erestor screamed, the Nazgûls screetched. They circled them; swords raised. A taste of iron filled Lindir’s mouth. His breath was short and fast. He spat blood. Next to him, Erestor fought like a lion. They would not last long. 

“He isn’t with them,” said one.

“Where is Curvo?”

“After the princeling!” 

Erestor paled. He attacked. He would not let the Prince go to Mandos under his watch. 

Perched from above, Thranduíl saw one of the Black Knights climbing, his dark shadow creeping on the tree. The Prince drew his sword, muttered apologies to the tree, and cut few branches he threw at the Nazgûl. One hit it in the face. The hood fell from his face, revealing raven black hair and dark glistening eyes. The creature screeched. The Sinda flinched. 

“You have it,” hissed the monster, “you wear it on you.” 

The Prince growled and jumped. The two tumbled together. Thranduíl bit and clawed, but his opponent was stronger and pinned him to the ground. The Nazgûl tore his shirt with his sword, cutting the Sinda’s skin on the way. This last one reached for his silmaril under the belt on his stomach. He took it in his hand and hit the Nazgûl with it. The jewel shone bright. Everything became a myriad of white light. Something pierced through the Prince’s stomach. He howled of pain. 

A range of tall rocky mountains at the horizon appeared around him. Crimson cloud covered a fading grey sky. An immense fortress stood. Then everything vanished into an evil shape taller than the mountains themselves. The sky tore to pieces. Two eyes of thunderlight shone above an evil smirk. “Come to me,” commanded the low voice that shook through Thranduíl’s being. He felt crushed from within. 

Suddenly, the Dark Lord disappeared. The Prince fell. 

It was chaos around him. He heard the Nazgûls shriek and their horses batted their wings. He was blinded by immaculate light and blurred shadows. His fingers were locked around the silmaril. He did not lose it. Good. A piercing pain irradiated through his body. He panted. He found himself rocked by golden dust. A figure with shiny blue eyes appeared before him while honey locks caressed his face. 

“Are you… are you… God?” panted the Prince. 

The figure murmured something he did not understand. Thranduíl could tell he was carried, then was gently seated on a horse, his back against an armour. He was hold by a strong muscular arm. 

“I’m sorry Ada… I’m flying to Valinor…”

Thranduíl moaned in pain when the horse ran.

“I miss Nana.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bottle of whisky shall return.
> 
> I like misleading chapter summaries. 
> 
> No meme per say ast chapter, just the Wakandan salute.


	5. Chapter V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of Gil-galad (please do play Enya's Aníron in the background)

He stirred; he had no wish to open his eyes. Birds were singing. A ray of light was caressing his skin. The weight of a few covers hold his body still. He felt good. 

He heard nearby footsteps. He felt a weight at the end of the mattress.

“I would wake up if I were you, there’s quite the view,” a voice said next to him.

Thranduíl opened his eyes. 

He was in the talan he built decades ago. None of the furniture he brought was missing. All the parchments and scrolls, pillows and candles, some knives here and there, everything was in place. The Prince glanced outside where bright green leaves were brushed by the soft song of the wind. 

“You aren’t getting up? Alright.” 

Someone went under the covers next to him. The Sinda his head toward his long-lost friend and smile. 

“I used to believe I would go to Valinor when I’d die,” he sighed, though he was not mad.

“Can’t be Valinor, I can’t go there, yet I’m here with you,” grinned the Man. 

Thranduil sighed. Perhaps it was a crossroad between Arda and Aman. Perhaps his wound was filled with too much magic, which forbade him from going to Valinor. 

He wished he could stay here a moment longer.

He intertwined his legs with the Man’s. He turned towards his friend and brushed his beard with his fingertips. “Before dying, I met someone. Someone like you,” murmured the Prince.

“Oh really? You’d thought I was coming down there to say you ‘hi’,” smiled the Man. 

“I do not know… Mayhap? You could be back to life. What happens to Men after death is unknown.”

“For you Elves. We have our rituals and deals with the Valar.”

“Will you not tell me?”

“Nah. I can’t.”

“But-…” Thranduíl’s gaze was veiled. A strong hand cupped his face.

“Hey, hey there, little Prince, didn’t want to make you sad, cheer. At least I’m here, am I not?” 

The Sinda glanced at the Man with glistening eyes. This last one continued, “Why does it matter where I go? You are destined to the Undying Lands, you know where you’ll be. Your mother is there already.” 

“It matters to me…” Thranduíl did not say anything else. Instead, he closed the distance between them and felt his friend’s heartbeat. They rested against each other in companionable silence. 

After a while, the Man stood up. 

“What is it?” asked Thranduíl.

“The sun. It’s getting bigger.” 

Intrigued, the Sinda went at the side of the Man. His eyes widened, “It looks like it’s coming to us…” 

“Yep, that you can say.”

The Prince fidgeted. Something felt wrong. He gripped his friend’s arm, “It’s taking you, isn’t it? It’s taking you away from me!” 

The Man took Thranduíl in his arms, “No, not me. Don’t worry little Prince, don’t worry for me.” He whispered to his ear, “The sun will stop burning before you do.” All of a sudden, the Sinda was pushed in the light. He fell from the talan. He heard, “Never forget I-…” 

Thranduíl woke up.

***

Elrond prepared the bandages and placed them on the nightstand. It had been two weeks since Thranduíl arrived in Glorfindel’s arms, stabbed and unconscious. The wound was slowly healing from Morgoth’s magic. Elrond glanced at the small pouch on the pillow next to the Prince where rested the silmaril (Mithrandir had carefully put it there.) He hoped its power would benefit the Sinda’s recovery. 

The Elda in question moved and moaned slightly. Elrond poured saline water in a jar on the drawer while keeping a close eye on his patient. Ai Elbereth, may you extract him from his come, he silently prayed. 

Thranduil blinked. He lazily stared at the ceiling. He looks slow and disoriented, thought the Peredhel. The Prince turned his head in Elrond’s direction. His vision was blurry. He blinked a few times more to see clearer. 

“A-Am I… Are you…” weakly articulated the Sinda. 

“Mae govannen, Thranduíl Oropherion,” Elrond put a hand to his heart and bowed his head. His patient frowned before looking back at the ceiling. Elrond was not alarmed. He was soaking a few bandages in the water when he heard Thranduíl slowly sitting up. 

“Are you real?”

“Pardon me?” 

“I asked if you were real.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Elrond mentally took note to ask the grey wizard if the Nazgûls’ blades were known to drug their victims. 

The Prince gazed at his hands, then absent-mindedly brushed his hair. He looked at Elrond again, “Peredhel, why are you here?”

“I am your healer,” as a matter of proof, the Peredhel showed him the bandage he was holding. 

Thranduíl considered it for a few minutes. An expression of deep offence was drawn on his face for reasons only known to him.

“Why am I here with you?”

“Because Glorfindel brought you here?” Elrond chose to keep his answers simple. Sick people needed not to be overflown with superfluous information. Thranduíl would come to his senses eventually—although he would like to know why the Sinda looked profoundly vexed. 

“Yes, but why am I here,” the Prince particularly stressed this last word, “with you? Is this Námo’s doing?” He groaned, then spat, “Why? Where are we? Are you dead too?”

“You-… what?” It was the healer’s time to be confused. 

“Yes. I died. I am dead. I was pushed into the light that would bring me to Mandos. Now, I am there. With you.”

“Uhm, Prince…”

“What?” Thranduíl felt very irritable. 

“You are not dead.”

“...Huh.” he eloquently put. 

Elrond sighed. He had no idea what happened when the Prince was unconscious, but his patient certainly did not have the right update à propos of his current state. 

“You are in the city of Imladris. You did not die, you were however seriously injured, a Black Knight stabbed you. You were unconscious for two weeks.” 

“But,” argued Thranduíl. Elrond was taken aback. Usually, his patients were delighted to learn they had not passed away yet. “I was in the arms of God. Ilúvatar himself hold me. He shone and had golden hair.” 

The Peredhel pondered this for a moment. Either the magic on the sword caused major hallucinogenic episodes, or-

“Ha. No. No, it wasn’t Eru. It was Glorfindel.” He mentally congratulated himself. Now, all the missing pieces were brought together! 

His patient looked at utter lost. Elrond sat on the bed, “I know it is a lot at once, but you are alive.” The Sinda nodded without believing too much of it. Thranduíl touched his stomach. 

“Where is it,” he blankly asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The silmaril.” His face changed, ready to attack. He snarled, “You have it with you. You stole it. Bloody Fëanorian Ñoldo.” The Prince jumped on Elrond. The Peredhel screamed and crashed on the floor. 

That was it.

Thranduíl lost consciousness on him. 

He felt a hot liquid on his robe. He passed a hand under the Sinda’s body to feel it was full of blood. 

Glorfindel burst into the room, sword in hand, “What happened? Someone screamed! ...Elrond? Elrond.” The Vanya made a funny face, “Were you two-”

“For the love of Elbereth, no,” interrupted the concerned one. “Help me put him back to bed, his wound opened, we have to stop the hemorrhage fast!” 

“Who screamed?” Gandalf appeared from the window, which made Glorfindel jump.

“Mithrandir!” exclaimed the balrogslayer. “How did you come here? You can… fly?”

“I heard a yell from the yard, running in the stairs would have taken too much time, here I am now,” explained the wizard. 

They delicately placed Thranduíl on the bed and took care of his wound. Elrond’s perfectly arched brows were frowned—this was his common expression, he took seriousness very… seriously. 

“He does not heal as well as I thought he would,” started the healer. “He heals… like a Man.” 

“Perhaps he is mixed like you,” suggested Glorfindel who was throwing the soaked bandages away in a basket.

“Look at him. There is no more pure-blooded Sinda than him, save for King Oropher.” 

“I suppose you are right. He is paler than snow and as silvery as one could get,” observed the Captain. 

“Put the silmaril on him,” said Gandalf. “Its power will heal him.”

“Mithrandir, the silmaril will burn me if I touch it with my bare hands,” replied Elrond. 

The wizard, unable to find a suitable response, grunted. 

“Ha, I can see it is still in the magic pouch,” he said after a moment. He opened it, then did some movement with his staff while incantating ‘Wingardium Leviosa’. The silmaril floated in the air and levitated towards the Prince. It—the silmaril, not Gandalf—fell on Thranduíl’s head, doing a little ‘poc!’ when landing. 

“There,” exclaimed Gandalf, satisfied, “he will recover as quickly as Hobbits devour their meals.” 

Glorfindel hummed non-committedly yet agreed that the silmaril was efficient. The entire body of the Sinda had become a myriad of dancing bright lights.

Elrond had no idea what on Arda a Hobbit was meant to be. 

Glorfindel leaned against the window, his cup of tea in hand. He and Gil-galad were back from hunt and rejoined Erestor, Elrond and Lindir who were studying the various regional dialects of Westron with Gandalf. 

“I still cannot believe you rode Smaug’s back, that is impossible,” he decreed to Lindir.

“Of course, it is! I am now terrified of heights because of this experience,” retorted his companion.

“I personally convinced the dragon to fly them close to Rivendell’s area,” pleaded Gandalf. 

The golden warrior pouted; he refused to admit he was envious. 

“I would like to know why Oropher allows a dragon in his kingdom,” grumbled Gil-galad who was scribbling Manwë-knows-what on a roll. 

“From what I understood, my Lord, Thranduíl explained me that after expelling Morgoth’s creatures from the kingdom, they negotiated agreements. Smaug was not the only fire drake, but his sibling was slayed by a Man of Laketown decades ago. King Oropher permits Smaug to hunt and wander in his realm as long as the dragon does not burn the forest nor kills, or else he would personally ensure he would never see the day again. Smaug has his own personal motives. We do not know what his bond to his sire is,” explained Lindir. 

“The dragonslayer is a Man? This is something to be proud of,” Erestor clapped his hand on Elrond’s back.

“Speaking of Woodland’s royals, how is our Prince?” enquired Glorfindel. “I would very much like to get acquainted with him.”

“I checked on him this afternoon. His skin burnt me at its touch, I could not see is his wound healed or not. He is still sleeping,” detailed Elrond. 

“I must say his temper is as beautiful as his face,” grinned the warrior, who was now reading above Gil-galad’s shoulder. 

“You say this because you are overly flattered he mistook you for Ilúvatar,” sighed the High King. “Get away from me, you will spill your tea on the parchment!”

“I won’t!”

“Yes, you will!” 

Thranduíl emerged from his dreamless sleep at the sound of bantering voices. He scanned the room, there was only him. He cautiously sat up. Something fell on his thigh. The silmaril. He took it in his hand. What was it doing on his forehead at the first place? The Prince shrugged. He noticed he wore a pale green linen shirt with black trousers, none of them were his personal clothes, somebody must had washed and changed him earlier. His wound on his left tickled. He had no idea how long he was asleep. 

He stood up, grabbed one of the blankets and draped it around his shoulders. He cautiously opened the door—he was scared it would squeak like a tortured harpy—and silently walked in the hall. He heard Lindir’s voice coming from a room at the end of the corridor. Intrigued, he moved forward. This must be Imladris, he thought, the columns look like Ñoldorin architecture. 

“Prince Thranduíl!” He jumped. Elrond came out of the room and almost bumped into him. “I was going to check on you, you seem much better!”

“He is awake?” Lindir’s voice enthusiastically said. The Ñoldo appeared behind Elrond, “You insufferable bastard, you gave me an enormous fright!” 

The Sinda realised Lindir was on a wheelchair. Absolute devastation was painted on his pale face. His friend noticed, “Fret not, I am not paralysed. I was badly injured, and Elrond prescribed me a month of rest so I can fully recover. Nothing too drastic.” 

Thranduíl sighed in relief. 

“How do you feel?” enquired Elrond. “Come and have a seat. Erestor and Mithrandir are here.” 

The Peredhel entered the room and introduced the Prince, “Here, Captain Glorfindel, who shall accompany you to Mordor, and who saved you, and his Majesty the High King Gil-galad.” Thranduíl bowed the Elvish way, his hand against his heart. He also bowed to Erestor who nodded, and smirked to Gandalf who waved. Glorfindel and Gil-galad replied to his bow by doing the same. 

Thranduíl’s face changed from ivory white to a suspicious greyish green shade. 

“If you are going to be sick, please refrain from regurgitating on the carpet!” burst Gil-galad.

“Ereinion…” scowled Glorfindel. 

Gandalf facepalmed. 

Elrond glared at his King and judged better to guide Thranduíl to the sofa. Lindir rolled next to his friend.

“You have not eaten in more than two weeks,” the healer addressed his patient only in appearances; Gil-galad needed to comprehend the Prince was not sick on good will. “I shall fetch you something light. Take deep breaths, it will pass. Morgoth’s magic weakened you, you are not healing like an Elda would regularly do, but like a Man, or so declared Mithrandir. I have experience with Men, you are in good hands.”

Glorfindel, who was reading above Gil-galad’s shoulder, jerked his head up, “Really! Do you? You kept things hidden from me.”

If crimson red could be associated to a face, it was Elrond’s. 

“Glorfindel! You spilled tea on my paper! I warned you, you slimy golden harlot!” eructed the High King. He pointed an accusatory finger at the balrogslayer, “Do not mock Elrond’s past experiences, you are worse than him when it comes to ellyth… and women!” 

“Oh, please! If there is a womaniser here, it’s Lindir,” Glorfindel took offense. 

Lindir, taken off guard, made indignant noises. It would not be the first time he reacts thus, remarked Thranduíl. 

Erestor cleared his throat, “Now that you jumped into a waltz of stupidities, I have the certainty Elrond referred to his twin brother Elros, first King of Númenor, and his descendants.” 

Thranduíl was too hungry and nauseous to find the situation funny. Elrond took the occasion to walk him to his chamber.

“I am sorry for their behaviour,” he mumbled, once the Prince was back to bed. This last one huffed. 

“Great,” exhaled the Peredhel, “I will fetch you soup, bread and water, then I will change your bandages.” He paused. “I think it would be best if we applied the silmaril directly onto your wound, it aids your recovery. I have the permission from Mithrandir, I would not endanger your life if it were risky.” 

Thranduíl nodded and thanked Elrond. He quickly fell asleep afterwards. 

He thought he had slept for the entire night, but he only dozed off for an hour, or so Elrond said when he came with the well deserved food. 

Thranduíl was born with a refined sense of dramatics, therefore, when Elrond was pressing around his wound and applying a healing balm, he whispered like a dying Elda, “Elrond…”

This last one stopped all movements altogether.

“Did I hurt you, Prince?”

“No, you may continue, in the facts, I would prefer you do not look at me.” 

Elrond nodded. This was a strange request, given that he had the treated his guest when this last one was fading into a spectre—he had witnessed the Prince under his worst. 

“They say you are on of the Peredhil. Eärendilion.”

The healer frowned, “That is correct, but-”

“Tar-Minyatur was your kin.”

Elrond stopped to breathe. What did Elros have to do with any of this?

“The first King of Númenor, gifted with a long life, yet he passed away.”

The Peredhel stared at his interlocutor; he would have not pursue this conversation any longer. What he saw in the pale eyes of the Prince left him speechless—they were lifeless. 

“Elrond, tell me… Where do Men go when they die?” 

Taken aback, he froze. He regained his control after a few breaths, “I am sorry, Prince… I do not know.”

“Thranduíl.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Thranduíl. Do not call me ‘Prince’ when my life is between your hands.”

The healer considered his patient. The Sinda smiled, yet his lips shed the tears of Nienna. Elrond finished the bandages. When he reached the doorframe, he said, “Believe me, I wish I knew too.”

He left. 

After his meal, Gandalf entered the room, followed by Gil-galad and Glorfindel. Thranduíl stared at them warily. The wizard sat at the foot of the bed, the King pulled a chair and the warrior rested his back against the wall—Gil-galad had taken the chair before him. 

“We have important matters to discuss,” started Gandalf, “unless you feel too weak.” 

“I shall be fine,” said Thranduíl. “Where are the others?” 

“I ordered them to admire trees outside. I do not have the energy to handle a conversation slipping into a banter of elflings,” answered Gil-galad who appeared to regret welcoming more than himself into his house. “I was reported you were attacked by the Seven Nazgûls. Knowing you are… cautious, Mithrandir judged necessary to go to The Singing Squash to confirm Erestor was not a spy of Mordor., and arrived during a crucial moment. Without the wizard, you would be in Barad-Dûr’s dungeons at this very moment.”

“I also did my part,” grumpily added Glorfindel.

“You did. See, Prince, Nazgûls dread light. As you certainly took notice, the Captain is a walking beacon.” 

“If I understood correctly, he will walk with me to Mordor only because he shines, and that presents itself to be the best Nazgûl repellent up to this day?” Thranduíl raised a brow. 

Glorfindel decided the entire Middle Earth should acknowledge this magnificent, yet terrifying expression. 

“Yes. Well, no. He is the most valuable warrior on this realm. Surely you heard the praises of Glorfindel of the Golden Flower,” replied the King. 

“Of course, I don’t live in a nest of red ants, if this is what you belie-” The Woold Elf was interrupted by the sound of a baby dragon screaming underwater. To live three eternities as an Ainu meant nothing when you grew impatient. 

Gandalf cleared his throat, albeit more elegantly this time, “After you hit the Black Knight with the silmaril, strong light emanated from it. What did you see? Its power penetrates into the mind and blinds it.” 

Thranduíl stared at his hands. There was a secret buried in his heart he would not share to anyone. 

“I think…” he started, “I was certain I died. The world was destroyed.” He gazed at Gandalf, “I saw _him_ , I saw his land, his mountains, his fortress. He became the world and spoke through me.”

“What did he say?” pressed the wizard. Glorfindel looked at the Prince, arms folded. Gil-galad appeared pensive, his fist under his chin.

“I do not… quite remember,” the Prince grimaced. “‘You shall come to me’ or ‘Come to me’. He also sang. It was terrifying, Mithrandir, his voice was the strongest, yet the brightest.” 

“Mithrandir, what does this mean?” The face of the balrogslayer left no place to pleasantry. 

Gandalf glanced at the Sinda, then addressed the others, “From my understanding, Prince Thranduíl encountered the One who arises in Might; Melkor. He knows. He knows you are going to Mordor.”

He exhaled.

“And he is waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, my cliff hangers are as terrible as Melkor leaving Maedhros hanging.
> 
> Thank you @Buggo_Writes for the golden insult!
> 
> Last chap's meme: modern problems require modern solutions.


	6. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little bonus for the French speakers in this chapter ;)

The Dark Lord played with his new toy, a prototype one of his Urûk sergeants built earlier. After thoroughly taking in consideration notions of physics and the biomechanics of the engine—an old knowledge forgotten by other Ainur who naïvely believe the world turns under the sole influence of magic, the Vala decreed his children were ready to build them in order to be used and to incorporate them into the military. 

In the middle of a conversation about the leverage principle with Glaurung, a bursting door interrupted him. 

“Melkor,” shouted Gothmog, “tell me where on Arda is Mairon, we need to discuss the election of a new Council for foreign trading and weaponry. Don’t tell me I didn’t do my job correctly, I looked for him all around Mordor, in addition of doing data entry concerning this year’s harvest—you may want to bring small changes to the minerals of the ground.” 

The Dark Vala raised his hand, “One thing at a time. Why don’t you come and sit?”

The Balrog smirked. His Lord always knew what to shoot back. He sat next to Glaurung, patted his blank while greeting him with his very famous ‘wassup mate’. 

“Amongst the things I were saying—where the fucking rotten Valmar is Mairon?”

“On vacation,” blankly answered Melkor. “He did not communicate me where he intended to go. I doubt he knew himself his destination. In the present moment, let me introduce you to the new genius of Urûk craft: the catapult.” 

Gothmog carefully observed the demonstration executed by his Lord on the small prototype. “This is why some Urûks, Men and other Balrogs went to chop wood a week ago,” the Balrog mused aloud. 

“Bingo.”

Melkor whispered something to Glaurung who blinked his eyes in response, then turned to his Captain.

“I need you to organise our troops. Do not flatter yourself that I delegate this task to you alone; Mairon is not there and I will not order him back to work. Work is better executed with proper rest, but I digress.” The Vala crossed his legs, “I know who is in possession of the missing silmaril. That bastard Olorin had kept it hidden for long.”

Gothmog waited. He was well aware the silmarils were synonymous of the apocalypse—or anything around them.

“There is an Elda in the name of Thranduíl Oropherion who now carries it. He is the Prince of the Elven Woodland we invaded decades ago. He is the only one, save for Fëanor, who can be in physical contact with the jewel with no harm.”

The Dark Vala paused.

“He will come here, to Mordor, to destroy the lovely diamond of mine in Mount Doom.”

Melkor smirked, “I want you to let him enter Mordor and cast it in the fire. In the facts, I intend the surface of Mordor to explode once this will happen. When I crafted your bodies, I made sure they would adapt to different climates. We shall move to our hidden roads and fortresses. Underground. The Age of Elves will end one day or another; I foresee the Secondborns shall reign on Arda. But before, I want you to attack Mannish kingdoms. We shall submit them to our will, because these,” he pointed the glistening jewels on his crown, “are what cost lives. Let’s use it at our advantage.”

The Balrog raised his brows. The world would be boring without his Master’s machinations.

“Oh, and,” continued this last one, “how about modifying your body so you can have wings?”

***

Thranduil spent another two weeks at Rivendell, to the great displeasure of Glorfindel who grew impatient—Gil-galad formally forbade him from vanishing Eru-knows-where, drinking and partying with Men. The recovery of the Prince was slow, but not as slow as predicted by Elrond. The healer noticed his state was improved when the legendary wit and sarcasm of the Woodland royal member were displayed in front of him. They all quickly learnt to mind their own businesses and not to interrogate the Sinda when he wished for peace and solitude. Gil-galad went at two fingers to ruin international Eryn Galen – Imladris relationships by disrupting his guest when this last one had his head buried under several books about Urûk underground architecture (his favourite subject of the moment). The High King of the Ñoldor had long remained in the ignorance concerning Greenwood communication; its inhabitants expressed their displeasure by hissing like giant spiders and growling like tigers. It was no longer the case. Lindir, named “expert of Thranduílian psychology” was more than often sent next to the Prince to check on his current mood. Despite all the domestic scenes, the Sinda proved to be polite, courteous and quite refined (which put Elrond to shame). 

Days became warmer and the Balrogslayer more than often wandered around with wearing nothing but combat boots and trousers. It was an old habit of his he affectioned. His tan skin wore the colour of caramel, which contrasted with his golden locks and his sea blue eyes. Glorfindel proudly exhibited his strong muscles and his scars. Erestor had stopped complaining about it, Gil-galad purposely ignored him, and Lindir and Elrond were unaffected by his parades. Thranduíl, however, had not been warned of such theatricals. One morning, he, Erestor and Lindir were in the library, studying the history of the spice trail that started from Khand and extended to Greenwood until the Grey Mountain—a topic the Prince had a lot to discuss about, since his butler Galion personally managed its trading. In the midst of an animated conversation, Thranduíl abruptly stopped talking, dangerously narrowing his eyes.

“Thran’? You seem like you are ready to curse the Valar,” Lindir remarked. He and Erestor followed his gaze; Glorfindel had entered the library, shirtless, innocently looking for books. 

“Why can’t he dress more appropriately? This is no fashion show. Oh, and if I desired the room to shine brighter, I would have brought all the candles of Imladris with me; I needed not his glowing skin,” rumbled the Sinda. 

“He does it often, I’m afraid,” sighed Lindir. 

Erestor rolled his eyes, “Pay him no attention.”

Thranduíl went back to his books. He nevertheless raised his eyes when the Captain exited the library; the posterior of the warrior was more than appealing. Lindir noticed the pink on his cheeks, in addition of his deep frown, “Yes, he does look good. Ellyn or ellyth, everyone admits it. Stop looking like a confused cat that is processing peculiar information, there is no shame nor harm.” 

The Prince pulled a face. His brain felt like stew. Great. Stupid Vanya! 

He wished Shelob was here. 

Glorfindel, to kill time, judged necessary to make mandatory sword and wrestling trainings. The Vanya spent valuable time next to Lindir suggesting multiple recovery exercises, but could not make rehabilitation sessions last the entire day. He had trained with Mithrandir—who was exceptionally dangerous under his disguise—but the wizard had left. He proudly announced that for the safety of the House of Gil-galad, Erestor, Elrond and Thranduíl’s participation was required to daily workouts. The warrior also suggested with no subtlety a High King was not permitted to lose his abilities on the field. Said King retorted he had other King things to finish, but he would gladly trade with Glorfindel. The Knight of the Golden Flower shook his head with terror. Finances? Never! Gil-galad huffed and told him he would lift a sword when Manwë shall put an end to his immediate chores. Erestor canceled his forced registration from the training by proving Glorfindel a well-thrown Quenya-Sindarin dictionary had the potential to be fatal. The Captain left him at peace since then. 

Elrond and Thranduíl did not benefit from such luck. Elrond had asked Gil-galad if His Majesty required any help from him, but the High King had dismissed him. “I cannot leave the Prince alone with Glorfindel, go” he had given as an excuse. Elrond had replied they both would go on a quest together with no one else around. Gil-galad had said it was Mithrandir’s decision, not his. Constrained, Elrond had balked, but accepted the mandatory training with somewhat good grace. After all, he was a good warrior who merely had a poor opinion of himself. 

Thranduíl had made good use of his camouflage skills; under the bed, on the ceiling, behind doors, on the rooftop, deep in the pond, highly perched on a tree, he had gone everywhere he could. After he had sensed the warrior had found him, he had “accidentally” walked on the Responsible of Imladris’ Culture Preservation and Legacy in the corridor, and had started to make conversation with her, using his most refined and sophisticated Doriathrim accent. Seduced, she had immediately engaged with the Woodland Prince. Noticing her Lothlorien accent (she was an expatriate, she had explained), Thranduíl had switched to Nandorin, to her delight, in front of a biased Gil-galad. To Thranduíl’s misfortune, Glorfindel had found him and had grabbed him by the sleeve, saying he could converse later. The Responsible had then told Gil-galad nothing would have a bigger impact than an aristocratic Sindarin speech followed by the exotic and feral Greenwood dialect. That is, she had added, when they communicate so other Nandor could understand them, for Greenwood possessed its own language that considerably differed from any form of Dwarvish, Mannish or Elvish communication. Gil-galad had grumbled no one seemed to worry about the status of Quenya in Middle-Earth, except for him, Elrond, and Glorfindel. 

The Balrogslayer soon realised how exceptionally agile the Prince was—who also was surprisingly competent at sword fighting and more than excellent at archery—but what a disaster at wrestling! Thankfully for him, it was Elrond’s forte. He assigned the healer the homework to help Thranduíl. This last one had spat something in the Eryn Galen tongue, but had not showed much opposition, only a desire to be back to his former activities as soon as possible. Once this was allowed, the Prince had escaped to Lindir’s room, his bottle of whisky in hand. 

***

Galadriel gasped. Next to her, Celeborn stirred, “What is it again.” He was completely dazed. He massaged his wife’s forehead with to calm her down.

“I saw Morgoth.”

“’Tis a bad dream.” 

“It was not. It was a vision. I also saw the Prince.”

“Thranduíl? Oropher may quarrel with his son, but never to the point of sending him to Morgoth. They are more likely to ride to Mordor together, fuelled by their passionate temper, to yell against the Dark Lord.” 

“You are right. But…” The Lady stopped, pensive.

“But?”

“I must try to reach Mithrandir. I have a premonition the Prince will march to the Dark Forces.”

“Mmh. This is bad. Ve-e-ry bad.” 

“… I shall recapitulate with you tomorrow, you are halfly paying attention to what I am saying.”

The Lady of the Golden Woods turned her head to the window, “Why do I hear voices?”

“Mghrm.” Celeborn had dived back to somnolence already. 

Galadriel stood up and opened the window, “You ladies and gentlemen ought to shut your mouths, some people here are trying to sleep! Mithrandir! Leave me a notice before you arrive, for Valar’s sake! Don’t smoke with Haldir, he must get up early tomorrow, he works! Celebrían! Go to bed! Now!” She quickly bended before a pillow hit her face; said pillow flew through the window. She shouted to the Elves outside, “Lord Celeborn desires much to sleep! If he wakes up grumpy tomorrow, you will have to deal with him! This pillow is a warning! Goodnight!” She slammed the window. 

***

“Mh, yes, your swords are typical of Doriath,” hummed Glorfindel, who had one of Thranduíl’s swords in hand, an apple in the other. The golden warrior looked up, “Would you tell me please why you are upside down in this tree?” 

They had departed Rivendell in the morning and had walked for the entire day and paused at twilight to eat and rest. Thranduil had jumped on the occasion to exercise one of his strange habits, hanging like a bat. 

_"La tendre demoiselle à la bouche ensorcelée  
S’éprit d’un corps embrasé  
Le poignard en main  
Le coeur empoisonné  
Elle s’assura que l’homme jamais ne vit le lendemain_

_La femme qui naguère  
Célébrait les rites de la chair  
Maudit l’opulence en ces terres  
À l’amour comme à la guerre_

_Et puis après, je ne sais plus  
Quelqu’un dans ma lancée m’interrompit  
Haut perché, je suis donc déçu  
De ne pouvoir poursuivre ce poème de mal en pis,"_ recited the Sinda. 

He swinged, jumped from the tree, flipped and landed next to Glorfindel.

“This was elegant,” commented this last one. “They say the tongue of the high Doriath society is the most romantic that could exist on Arda, I very much agree with such statement. What was it about?”

“It was passable,” shrugged Thranduíl, “I merely improvised for my own entertainment. It was about a person from the feminine gender falling for a person of the opposite sex, killing him, to summarise briefly.” 

Glorfindel made a face, “If this is based on someone you are acquainted with, then Woodland ellyth are dragons.” 

“It wasn’t about an ellyth. Or a Woman, for that matter.”

“About whom, then?” The Captain looked sceptical.

“Someone I know. Are the mushrooms ready?” The Prince flew away from the topic, narrowing his thoughts to the shrooms that were grilling above the fire. 

“Don’t change subject. You are going to tell me one day, aren’t you?”

“We shall see. Now, I am hungry.” 

They ate with no rush. Glorfindel chatted about the love a race of small people, the Hobbit, devoted to mushrooms. He talked about their small height, their big hairy feet, their rosy cheeks, their amusing curls and their gluttonous lifestyles. The Lord of the Golden Flower winked at his companion, he and Lindir pretexed they were going on an important mission with Mithrandir and Radagast. They did not detail the mission was to visit the Shire. Thranduíl noted Lord Celeborn must be a Hobbit incarnated into the hröa of an Elda. 

They continued the journey once they were done eating. They had previously agreed to move during the night and rest during the day to minimise the risks of Orcish suprise attacks. From the forest arose a voice singing.

 _’Yar dar feedle lee dhee_  
Do what you want ‘cause a pirate is free  
You are a pirate!’ 

“You hear this, don’t you,” said Thranduíl.

“Yes,” Glorfindel frowned, attentive. “This is Westron, someone is in the woods. We must follow the voice!”

They penetrated deeper in the woods to find a joyful old man in front of his small wooden thatched cottage. He was singing with delight and bliss to the animals that were roaming around him, ale in hand. 

“Ha, come, visitors, come!” invited the man. “Sit on the log next to me, say hello to dear old Tom! Yes, that is my name! Tom Bombadil!” 

Thranduíl casted Glorfindel a wary side-glance, but this last one smiled, amused. “Nice to meet you, Tom Bombadil, I am Glorfindel of-”

“The Golden House, I know,” interrupted Tom. “And you bring with you The Protector of the Woods!”

“I beg your pardon?” A black eyebrow was raised. I hope the old man will understand the warning, thought Glorfindel.

“This is how the trees name you, Prince Thranduíl of Greenwood the Great. They say you will be the last remaining Elvenking and shall remain on Middle Earth with your people for long during the Age of Men. Tom Bombadil knows everything!” 

“Are you by chance one of the Ainur?” enquired Glorfindel, genuinely curious.

“My dear, for someone who was raised amongst the Valar and the Maiar, had you once seen my face in your early days, o mighty Golden Knight?”

“No, but-”

“Tom Bombadil is old, as old as,” Tom pointed the forest around him, “the animals, the trees, the soil. I have always been there.” He clapped his knees, accidentally spilling ale on the way. “Tell me, my children, what brings you here?”

“The path, obviously,” deadpanned Thranduíl. 

Glorfindel shot him an exasperated glare. Why was he like that?

“We heard your voice,” the warrior explained, “so we followed it.”

The strange old man smiled, “Wanderers hardly find me ‘by accident’. I sensed you were good people, and Tom is rarely mistaken! I suppose you are on an adventure, Captain?” 

“If it is possible to call it that way.”

Thranduíl was paying no attention. Instead he sang and a few birds landed on his arms. He talked their language and they replied with chips. “Tom Bombadil is trustworthy,” the Prince said. Tom did not appear offended, “Of course not! You must be careful with birds; they often have the head in the air—so to speak—and do not always understand the world!” 

“The robin sees details the falcon does not,” answered the Prince, who was petting a yellow bird perched on his hand. 

The old man turned his attention back to Glorfindel and was staring at his hair with a strange intensity. 

“Your hair,” he spoke low, “so shiny. I heard Elvish brushes were gentle on the locks. Do you… do you believe I could try yours on my beard?”

The Lord of the Golden Flower, taken by surprised, blinked a few times before mumbling an eloquent, “Mhm yes… I must find it beforehand… mhm…” He searched in his bag, chewed some Vanyarin words between his teeth—this was after all a strange request—and abruptly ceased to scour his back.

“Thranduíl,” his voice was panicked. 

“What,” dryly replied the Sinda who hated being interrupted—he was in a deep conversation with the birds on his arm. 

“My hairbrush.”

No answer.

“I forgot it.”

A groan. 

“We have to go back to Imladris.” 

The Vanya put his bag on his back, wished Tom Bombadil good night, grabbed an indignant Thranduíl who growled at him like a displeased big cat by the wrist, and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mordez pas trop, au départ, je voulais inclure «Le Vin du solitaire» de Baudelaire, mais je me suis dit que ce serait plus drôle d'écrire n'importe quoi... (et ouais les gens, le français est ma langue maternelle) 
> 
> Yeah, they sometimes play bingo in Mordor. Melkor also invented Twister. 
> 
> Chap. 5: 'Wingardium Leviosa', I lowkey included Harry Potter, because we all know Gandalf told Harry to use the Force and whatnot.


	7. Chapter VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel and Thranduíl take a bath, Celebrimbor and Fëanor are chilling in Moria.

“We’re here!” Glorfindel shouted, victorious. Thranduíl, closely following behind him, was not as enthusiastic. He was rather at two fingers to crash into the arms of exhaustion; he and Glorfindel had sprinted all night. The Prince felt hot and moist in his clothes, he put the blame on Morgoth’s magic. He mentally took note to catch Elrond and to have an examination. 

They climbed the stairs to find an incredulous Elrond and a intrigued Gil-galad in the hall. 

“Mount Doom is farther than a day from Rivendell,” mockingly said the High King, hands on his hips. Glorfindel vaguely waved his hand while Thranduíl pressed his body against the wall, panting. A bath, he needed to bathe. Gil-galad noticed the drops of water on their faces. “Elrond,” he paled, “what is this? Were they attacked by Nazgûls?” 

The healer stepped forward and rested his hand on Glorfindel’s forehead. “No, my Lord, this is sweat. It is a human bodily reaction to heat; it allows them to regulate their internal temperature. It sometimes happens to me too. It happens to Elves when they push their hröa too far, most commonly in battle,” explained Elrond, unaffected. He nevertheless took his handkerchief to wipe his hand.

“This is true,” responded the warrior who was trembling on his feet and about to collapse at any second. “It happened when I… battled with the… Balrog, and… talking hard.” His breath was laborious. 

“We shall discuss these matters later. Why don’t you both go to the baths and wash yourselves? The Prince looks like a frightened and dying soaked cat,” suggested Gil-galad. Thranduíl had no energy left to disagree with the King. Frankly, he intended to fall asleep standing against a fresh wall, no matter how undignified this was. 

Glorfindel gently took his wrist and directed him to the bathing room. 

Gil-galad turned to Elrond, “I am astonished. I am very close to hold a ceremony to ask Elbereth to be merciful.” The Ñoldo massaged his forehead, groaning, “We will never succeed to see this silmaril destroyed.” 

Elrond patted him on the shoulder. 

Thranduil sat on the marble floor, a towel wrapped around his waist, and stared at nothing. He then looked at the basin filled with hot water, place where people would go after being washed and clean to relax their sore muscles and spirits. Strange Ñoldorin practice, adopted by the Númenorians, courtesy of Tar-Minyatur, and by the Gondorians. Wood Elves preferred to bathe in natural water sources, or to jump in the snow. The Sinda had no desire to be close to warmth or heat again. He took the big wooden bucket next to him, a soap, hang his towel on the wall, and mechanically proceeded to remove sweat, dust and dirt from his body. Once done with his task, he put a dressing gown around his body, put some leggings on (hopefully his) and sat again, closing his eyes. 

After a certain time of contemplating the void, he felt a gentle pat on his head. Glorfindel, in a gown too, gestured him to get up. The Prince obediently followed. The Vanya led them to his room. Thranduíl, in bliss and ecstasy, gracefully slipped on the floor and fell asleep the minute his head hit the floor. Glorfindel, after thinking the Prince had a nice bum, judged it was very uncivilised to not let his companion sleep in the bed. His mother would be ashamed. He carefully lifted the Wood Elf, tucked him like an elfling and dived under the covers on the other side of the bed. The Captain immediately fell in Lórien’s arms. 

“Are they-”

“Yes, they are. Where is Erestor?”

The scene that awaited this last one was certainly not what he expected on a sunny morning; Gil-galad and Elrond peeking through the door of Glorfindel’s room. “What are you-,” he exclaimed.

“Shhh,” Gil-galad slapped him with his long sleeve and Elrond shot him a heavy scolding look—the same Elros used with his children and grandchildren, observed the High King with a shiver. 

Erestor, noticeably confused, peered at what his companions were spying at. His jaw dropped, “No way…”

“Yes,” whispered Gil-galad, “they came back this morning in, believe or not, sweat. I know not what happened, talking alone demanded too much energy from them. I suspect they saw the strangest creature of Arda or are cursed.” 

“Is Lindir awake?” asked Elrond. “I should wake him up. I will also bring parchments, quills, ink and charcoal with me.” He added, “Erestor, you draw well. You are in the necessity to capture this moment.” 

Erestor acquiesced. This was golden—or silver, so to speak in order to describe the hair colour of the protagonists of the current situation—blackmail material right before him he would use forever against Glorfindel. He certainly was a dead ellon if Thranduíl knew, and Erestor had no wish to become meat pâté for giant spiders. So, to use this knowledge in Glorfindel's presence only was the advice Erestor gave himself.

Elrond was back with the promised material and a half awake, dishevelled, grumpy Lindir. 

“This ought to be worth it, because I swear I-,” the bard started, but was interrupted by the sleeve of the King smacking his face. His body language screamed to talk lower, and then he pointed to Glorfindel’s room. 

Lindir stared, a bit dazed, “Yes? This is Glorfindel sleeping.”

“And?” Erestor’s smile was more than victorious. 

“Right. Is he back?”

Gil-galad facepalmed, “No. Huh. Yes.” He lathered, “Look more closely!”

The bard narrowed his eyes. His mind was clouded by the spectre of sleep—he was envious of Glorfindel who appeared dead from exhaustion, yet comfortably in bed, with his blankets… not really on him, noticed Lindir, his gown is undone, he is close to nudity. 

His eyes widened with comprehension. 

“Now you understand,” smugly said Elrond. Lindir scratched his head, confused. Yes, Thranduíl would rather eat Mithrandir’s hat than to admit he found Glorfindel attractive and tended to be on his guards when the Captain was around, but nothing premised such proximity between them. Sleeping in the same bed, no less! Next to him, Erestor was scribbling on a parchment. 

“May I borrow a quill and a roll?” requested Gil-galad to the librarian, who accepted. 

“Excuse me your Highness, but do you intend to draw?” Elrond was skeptical. He knew his King was talented in the… absurd visual representation area. Even his stickselves resembled deranged horses. 

“Of course not,” replied Gil-galad, “I am in the obligation to report the events.” The Ñoldo pressed the paper against the wall. He recited while writing, _”Dear Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn,_

_A single day and night only lasted since the departure of Glorfindel and Prince Thranduil. They came back this morning. Their reasons are unknown, but I suspect Morgoth’s evil was roaming free in the woods around the Mannish farms near by Imladris. The Captain is a bit scared of Balrogs since the tragic event that had ended his first life, but according to Lindir, the Woodland Prince domesticates spiders and rides on dragons, I therefore discard the possibility of meeting a Balrog face to face—a certain Sinda would be left unimpressed._

_As unbelievable as it may sound, they arrived to the mansion this morning in sweat! Sweat! A phenomenon only Elrond knows of, due to his Mannish blood. They were both ready to collapse; Glorfindel shaked so much he could not stand properly and Thranduíl was dozing against the wall._

_That being said, I am fully unaware of the event—surely a bit of mindreading by the Lady could bring enlightement and explanation on the table? Glorfindel and Thranduíl seemed to tolerate each other at best. They both recognise the other’s qualities and values to the Quest (the Quest Mithrandir promised to talk to you about), nothing beyond professionalism, I must say. And yet, they are sleeping together. In the same bed!! While my reason puts the blame on Morgoth’s black magic, I cannot help, but to report the events. You both are in the possession of vital knowledge about them. I am however divided: should I tell Lord Oropher, or should I not? Perhaps Celeborn could share the information? Nevertheless, we (Elrond, Erestor, Lindir and myself”_

Gil-galad was interrupted by Erestor shaking his shoulder. 

“Oh, sweet Elbereth, Glorfindel is moving, quick, hide!” the scholar panicked. The four of them, instead of running away like sensible living beings, slammed their bodies against the wall.

Lindir checked through the door. “It’s alright,” he whispered, “they are still sleeping.” The others approached.

“Is Glorfindel naked?” wondered Gil-galad.

“No, look at his leg, we can see he has his bathrobe on,” answered Elrond.

“Aw, how adorable is this,” sneered Erestor, “his head is against Thranduíl’s chest, like a baby curled against his naneth.” 

Glorfindel heard low voices and whispers. He moved closer to the source of heat that was next to him. His head softly hit perfectly toned pectorals, a change from the feminine curves the warrior was well acquainted with. He passed his arm around a narrow waist. 

Thranduíl awoke a few moments later. He felt a weight on his flank, and something was resting against his chest. A golden head. The Prince brushed the blonde locks. His heart tore to pieces at the reminiscence of the Man he once knew and now mourned. 

***

“Are they… dead?”

The Man smiled, “First time you see humans sleeping, don’t you?”

“Yes. Others I have encountered preferred to stayed awake in my presence.”

His companion huffed, amused, “Nah. We sleep with our eyes closed.”

“Is it not dangerous? To let your guards down…” 

The Man folded his arms, still smirking, “We are predators, don’t forget. Our lives may be short—if you exclude the rare remaining Númenóreans—but we cope with our technology. Dwarves do the same.”

Thranduíl frowned. He looked at the two children asleep on the bench, next to their mother who was sewing and selling clothes. “They look very peaceful. Is death the same as sleeping?”

“Eh, how would I know, I’m alive, and the dead don’t come back to chitchat with us. You should ask your shiny variety of Elves who say they saw gods and whatnot,” shrugged his friend. He added, “In all sincerity, when I saw you sleep, I thought _you_ were dead.”

***

The dreams slowly disappeared from the Sinda’s vision. A hot breath was caressing his cheek. Glorfindel was still sleeping next to him, staring somewhere next to him. The Woodland Elf mumbled to himself Men were right when they qualified sleeping Elves as “creepy”. He gently poked Glorfindel’s cheek. The golden knight did not react. Thranduíl silently removed himself from the bed—after mentally cursing the Captain for entangling his legs with his and being more naked than otherwise (his bathrobe played the role of a pitiful garment). He saw his clothes were hanging on the balcony but preferred to pick a short-sleeved leather shirt from his bag and put it on. He then styled his hair in a high bun with two tight large braids before exiting the room and moving to the kitchen. Once in the corridor, he revised his decision and opted to check if Gil-galad, Erestor, Elrond and Lindir were in the boudoir, as they usually reunited each evening. He judged well; they indeed were. He leaned against the doorframe, spying on their conversation—not exactly the most mature he had heard of. Elrond looked like he strongly desired to dig a hole in the floor, jump in there head first and never come back, Lindir spoke like an expert about the matter, Erestor and Gil-galad giggled, like ellyn did when they were on that special southern Greenwood plant Thranduíl-could-not-recall-its-name, while sharing some past experiences. Elrond, searching for an emergency exit—he briefly considered the window—was the first to notice the Sinda.

“Thranduíl!” he exclaimed. “You’re awake! Come in!” The Prince gracefully came in the room and sat next to the healer. 

“I apologise for abusing your hospitality once more,” he bowed to Gil-galad. “I was not in the control of our actions and-”

“For the love of Elbereth, don’t!” interrupted the Ñoldorin King while clapping his thigh—his own, not Thranduíl’s. “I know Glorfindel dragged you by force, you tend to prefer hiding at the bottom of any water stream when something upsets you. Something scary must have happened, didn’t it? Was it dark magic? Did you, you know,” Gil-galad gestured wildly. It took Thranduíl a while before understanding what his interlocutor tried to communicate—he seemed more like an excited moth than anything else. 

“No, I have not,” answered the Prince. The King immediately sighed of relief; thank Eru Morgoth did not make any other appearance! 

“Will you at least explain us what made you come back after a day?” asked Elrond. His expression was suspiciously smug but faded into embarrassment under the icy cold glare Thranduíl shot him. As terrifying as King Oropher, mentally noted Lindir, who certainly did not miss the stare that possessed the power to make an entire nation vow allegiance—although Oropher never needed to stare in order of the Woodland Elves to claim him King, he was authoritative, but no tyrant. 

“I will not,” coolly decreed the Sinda. “You may want to ask your companion about it.” Erestor laughed like a hungry hyena that finally had meat to eat in front of him, but quickly shut it down after receiving another Oropheresque killer-stare. If Thranduíl overcomes his father with his glares, we are doomed, added Lindir to himself. 

“I gathered I arrived in the middle of an interesting conversation,” pursued the Greenwood royal, “what were you discussing about, pray tell?”

“We were evaluating the probability of a Maia reproducing the ‘natural’ way, like the Children of Ilúvatar do,” said Lindir. “Valar create life with their power, but Maiar?”

“They can and do,” answered Thranduíl. 

“How would you know that?” Elrond was genuinely curious.

“Oh. Well. Melian and Thingol had Lúthien, hadn’t they?” the tone of the Prince was nonchalant, but his cheeks wore the pink colour of denial. 

Elrond, Erestor and Gil-galad froze in surprised, then looked at Lindir—because the bard was close to the Prince, surely, he would know of it, no? –who appeared as taken aback as the others. Thranduíl cleared his throat (obviously more elegantly than Gandalf who had the talent to produce animalistic sounds straight from nightmares) and stood up, “Very well. I am famished, I will see what is left for me to eat in the kitchens. Oh, Glorfindel, there you are. They are curious to know why we were back here this morning; I think it is your responsibility to provide them a justification.”

“Ah ha, no,” refused the Captain, “I am hungry as well, why don’t we go to the kitchens together?”

“Please, put more clothes on before wandering around. You are wearing nothing, but a loose dressing grown,” hissed Thranduíl. 

“Who cares. Yourself are not that dressed.”

“At least my bum is covered by my shirt, moreover, my leggings are black, not transparent.”

“If you say so. Come, now.”

The Prince emitted a low growl, but nevertheless walked alongside the Balrogslayer. 

The four Ñoldor looked at each other; they required explanations, and they shall have them. 

After a ceremony held by Gil-galad in the honour of Elbereth and Manwë—the King had displayed superstitious tendencies—Glorfindel and Tranduíl departed for good. The Ñoldor obviously had not let them go until they were granted justification behind their abrupt comeback. The Balrogslayer had mumbled he forgot his daggers and throwing knives, which were very valuable in combat. Thankfully for him, Thranduíl had kept his mouth shut. Maybe Glorfindel had threatened him if he spilled the truth. Maybe. This remained a sealed secret between them. 

They followed the Bruinen river for almost two weeks. They paused every two days to rest and sleep. Thranduil, usually fond of hiking—an activity he liked very much in the Wood Kingdom—became quite annoyed by the end of the first week. He bitterly argued riding a dragon’s back combined both efficiency and speed, to which Glorfindel had retorted it was preferable to walk, in case someone fell down, the shock was greatly diminished when on foot then on a dragon. The Prince explained there were harnesses to avoid such tragedy, but his companion had stopped paying attention; he had spotted a deer and shot his arrow. Harness or not, there was a meal waiting for them. The Captain associated lembas with military expeditions, which was not always a pleasant experience, and quickly tired from always eating the same thing, so he tried to eat them the least he could. Thranduíl then solemnly declared that in case things turned wrong, he would have no qualms to convert to cannibalism. Glorfindel retorted he was a bit morbid. 

They ate in the field, another “flat treeless middle-of-nowhere” according to Thranduíl who was used to dense forests. He however enjoyed admiring sunrises and sunsets. Glorfindel added that the exotic and change never harmed. 

The hands in the middle of the carcass, extracting ligaments and organs, blood all over his face, the Prince asked where they should go next. 

“Through the Misty Mountains,” Glorfindel gestured at the mountain range in front of them. 

“Above or under?”

“Uhm…” The Captain reflected for a moment. Walking through was indeed dangerous. Elves were immune to cold to a certain extent—he had heard the tales of the crossing of the Helcaraxë when he was residing Valmar. He was not quite keen on living Helcaraxë 2.0 when his mission had just started. “You look wild, you know?” he told the Sinda. “Even your hair has blood in it.”

“I’m aware, thank you,” responded this last one, very concentrated on removing the deer’s bladder without causing unnecessary mess. “It will disappear, I can wash in the river my appearance is distasteful to you.”

The golden knight hummed non-committedly. 

“Going through the Misty Mountains is risky…” he articulated.

“Ha huh.”

“Thranduíl, I am trying to formulate a plan, not to have my words judged. Besides, don’t bite that bone like this, it’s unhealthy.” 

The Prince glanced at him, seemingly saying ‘What, now?’ 

“There is a Dwarven place called ‘Moria’. It has been under construction for quite a while, but I heard it was mostly complete by now. It is our only way to cross underneath the mountains.” 

Moria, Moria, Moria… Thranduíl sensed there was something he knew about it, somewhere at the corner of his mind that he could not retrieve. 

“Celebrimbor works with them, and he is aided by Annatar the Lord of Gifts, a Maia of Aulë,” continued his companion.

The Sinda pulled a face. So that was it. Celebrimbor. He had very little affection for Fëanor and his descendants. He would gladly give them as meat pies to Shelob if he could. Glorfindel was gazing at him, waiting for a reaction, other than ‘Those despicable kinslayers can perish as soon as possible’ that was painted on the Prince’s forehead. 

“I suppose we have no choice,” the Wood Elf sighed. “Moria it is, then.” 

***

“This is a plan for a door. A magical door, that is,” Celebrimbor showed a large sketch that was spread out on the table in front of him.

“Mh,” said the ghost of Fëanor, above his shoulder, “pray tell, how will you make it magical?” 

His grandson nervously chuckled. A door opened and a slim figure walked in, a fuming wine glass in hand. 

“Ha, there you are,” the smith exclaimed. He sniffed, “Please tell me you are not drinking lava again.”

“I am,” calmly replied the man. He turned to Fëanor, “And you are?”

“My grandpa,” happily answered Celebrimbor. “I was showing him the gate we are going to build.”

“Very well. I merely wanted to check how your plan progressed.” The man took a sip, “I must say I did not expect a spectre to be your assistant.” He promptly left the room at that.

Celebrimbor grinned to the ghost, “That’s my source of magic. He does magic.”

“I suspected so, who else casually drinks lava? Tell me, Tyelpë, who is he?”

“Annatar, the Lord of Gifts.”

Seeing this triggered no reaction, the Ñoldo pursued, “A Maia of Aulë.”

Fëanor narrowed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Thrandy did have the sexy times with a Maia. Who dat be?


	8. Chapter VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annatar Skywalker.

After arguing about how to cook deer meat for its preservation (Glorfindel preferred to salt it, Thranduíl replied to smoke it was more efficient, given none of them had brought the necessary amount of salt to prepare it), the two Eldar marched to Moria. After a night of walk, they entered the woods at the foot of the mountains to rest. Thranduíl quickly spotted a big tree with which part of its roots outside the ground. The Wood Elf slid under the roots and rested his head on the bag. Glorfindel thought he looked like a cub in its element, but knew it was better to keep that thought for himself. The Vanya slid under the roots next to the Prince, albeit more clumsily. 

Something flew through Glorfindel’s mind. 

“Thranduíl?”

“Mmh?”

Glorfindel inhaled, “You know there are Dwarves in Moria?”

“Of course, do you think I am professionally ignorant?”

“...very well. Please do not cause diplomatic conflicts with them, you will be the ambassador of your realm to their eyes. We will—I know we will—be at war against Morgoth, they are valuable allies to keep. I understand your resentment concerning what happened to Doriath, but now is not the time to debate that question.”

Thranduíl groaned, and shifted to the other side, facing Glorfindel, “I know. I also know there are Elves working with them. Ñoldor. Amongst them, the grandson of Fëanor.” He vehemently spat those last words, drops of acid on his tongue. “I am going to use a fake identity, certainly that brat and his father are in good terms enough to send the Nazgûls after us if I reveal who I am.” 

His expression was cold. Glorfindel tentatively tried to lighten the conversation, “Rest assured, Celebrimbor and Curufin are not on good terms.”

The Prince narrowed his eyes, “How do you know?”

“He told me!”

Thranduíl froze, speechless, then proceeded to insult Glorfindel in the Greenwood tongue. The Captain understood his doom was coming when foreign words changed to giant spider hissing. The Sinda abruptly lifted his arms, driven by the emotion, violently hit the root, swore even more. He calmed down after a few minutes, patted the root above him, apologising to it.

“I merely wanted to warn you in order to avoid bad surprises when we arrive,” sheepishly justified Glorfindel. 

Thranduíl sighed, nonetheless still in a foul mood. “I know,” he whispered, “but now, let’s sleep, we will… discuss this unfortunate matter tomorrow.” He fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

But he is no Man, wondered Glorfindel. 

Eyes closed, what a strange lad indeed. 

When the night came, they continued their journey through the dark woods, to the delight of Thranduíl who felt home in this forest that was almost boreal—the Greenwood Prince gave Glorfindel long lectures about the different trees they encountered in these woods, and how they related or differed from Eryn Galen’s woods. Glorfindel was taken aback: first, he had not succeeded to pronounce a word, a rarity, given the fact he was the voluble one; second, Thranduíl was animated, warm and friendly, qualities he only reserved to Lindir! The balrogslayer secretly thanked Yavanna for placing a forest on their path. After a night of intensive knowledge poured onto him, the Vanya put a word or two about the palm trees of Valmar, right before they stopped in front of the Misty Mountains, standing tall before them. 

“Mh,” commented Thranduíl, “mountains are beautiful, but don’t you think Aulë liked breasts a wee bit too much?”

The warrior slowly turned his head towards the Sinda and stared like his companion took the appearance of a naked chicken. 

“Pardon me?”

“But of course,” sighed the Prince, pointing at the mountains, “they look like breasts—albeit unnecessarily pointy—displayed on the ground. It is all a matter of metaphors and suspicious Valarin humour…” 

It was at this moment Glorfindel knew he needed to wash his ears to unhear it. He purposely ignored this statement, not that he did not fancy the feminine bosom, he unfortunately was captive of his lust, but Valar and sexuality was a sinful combination to him. He sometimes saw Manwë from up close in the past and did not imagine him having sex and making Varda sing with his mouth; in the fact, he did not imagine Manwë living at all. 

Besides, his wee lad down there between his legs was quite vocal about favouring flat chests nowadays, but the Golden Knight was not lunatic enough to properly admit it, even to himself. 

He cleared his throat, and intrusive thoughts at the same time, “We must climb for a bit.”

Thranduíl raised a brow, “I was prone to believe Dwarves did not like heights.”

“Definitely not, but they built a secret path that leads to Moria, where they digged down.” 

“How do you know all of this? Is it because you went to see that friend of yours?” The Sinda could talk about personally having to wear the overused underwear of an old ill Urûk and he would look a hundred times less disdainful and disgusted than he was. 

“I have a lot of free time,” simply responded Glorfindel, which was true. Gil-galad was not big on being scowled like a child and often sent the Captain to wander where he pleased, if he would not die another time and eventually be back—and stop reprimanding the King!

Thranduíl’s lips twitched. The warrior patted him on the back—more on the bag than on the Wood Elf’s back itself, but an indirect contact was a form of contact—and led the way. 

Climbing was not too difficult. However, the attention of the Sinda was often brought to the rocks he found. Obviously, they were no mere rocks, but Glorfindel had not the patience to sit and wait for his companion to dig every shiny mineral he found. He allowed Thranduíl to bring with him a maximum of five stones. The Prince accepted. Curious, the balrogslayer had nonetheless asked why he had such interest in minerals, his companion explained his mother loved these, and he started to collection the rarest gems he could find. He intended to bring them to her when he’d sail to the Undying Lands.

Glorfindel’s heart tore to pieces when he realised Thranduíl’s mother had died from illness. 

***

“Have you seen my hairbrush?” Elrond, flushed and agitated, paced around the library.

“Which one, you have at least five…” replied Erestor, who was busy classifying new rolls he had received in the morning. “Now take a seat and relax, would you? You are walking so heavily the floor will tear under your weight.”

“Are you insinuating I’ve gained weight?”

“Elrond, for the love of Elbereth, _would you please._ Don’t distort my words. Tell me about this brush you’re looking for.”

The Peredhel glared, but complied, “The one with copper and turquoise, from Númenor.” 

“Wasn’t it Glorfindel’s?” 

“He has a similar one from Gondolin, but not, his has some subtle golden.”

“Then I don’t know.”

“Hey Erestor, have you found the partitions I asked you for? The ones of Doriathrin harpsichord I am looking for, Lord Oropher did not have them when I was in Eryn Galen,” burst Lindir into the library.

“Lindir!”

The bard jumped and screamed what sounded like a seagull emitting some sort of ‘eeuuah’. Lindir’s voice was a soft delight, until he was taken by surprised and frightened.

“Elrond! I had not seen you!”

“Lindir, this is very important, have you seen my hairbrush?”

“Which one?”

“Ha!” exclaimed Erestor, victorious. “I told you so, you have too many!”

Elrond groaned, “The one with copper and turquoise.”

“Wasn’t it Glorfindel’s?” 

The healer pulled his hair, “No… Glorfindel’s has hints of gold.”

“Then I suppose I did, in the bathing room, perhaps,” shrugged Lindir. 

Elrond looked like the bard promised him the tastiest chocolate on Arda, “Really? Did you?”

“Yes…” 

“Let’s go, then!” 

Excited, Elrond grabbed Lindir’s sleeve and ran to the bathing room. Erestor sighed. So much for a hairbrush… 

Once in the bathing room, Elrond checked in all the drawers. It was not there. He cried of hopelessness. Lindir pulled a hairbrush, “Isn’t it yours?” The Peredhel took it from his hand to check. He carefully turned the brush. 

“No…” faintly whispered the herald. “This one is Glorfindel’s.” He gazed at Lindir, “I think Glorfindel accidentally took it. We must retrieve it. Tell Erestor to pack his things, I shall talk to the King. And you are coming too.” He quickly exited the room, running. 

Lindir was left speechless in the bathing room.

***

“This is deeper than I thought,” grumbled Glorfindel, considerably unhappy. 

“We are talking about dwarves, what do you expect from them, to camp on clouds?” huffed Thranduíl, next to him. 

They both had been carefully going down the ravine, almost risking their lives on a few occasions. “It would not be the first time I go to Mandos!” had oddly joyfully said the balrogslayer. “I suppose Námo will not be very glad to see me again,” he had added, pensive. “It is his job to deal with the dead,” had supplied the Prince. “If he finds himself unhappy, he must become the Vala of Ilúvatar-knows-what instead. This is not your problem.” “Oof,” had said Glorfindel, “those are harsh words.” The Sinda had shrugged, “There are too many wars and losses, too many kinslayings. I do not like death.” His partner had sadly smiled, before amicably placing his hand behind his neck, “This shall be a conversation for another day. Now, come, we must find the entrance to Moria.” 

Which they did. There was a rectangular hole carved in stone, seemingly like a doorframe.

“Was it like this, last time you came?” asked Thranduíl.

“Ha no,” said Glorfindel, “it is much better now. There used to be only a small hole. My shoulders were stuck the first time I tried to enter.”

They penetrated into Moria. The Greenwood Prince whistled; Dwarvish architecture was indeed impressive. Glorfindel, discreet as always, screamed Celebrimbor’s name and shouted things that resembled ‘is there anybody here?’ in Sindarin, Quenya, Quendya and Westron. He almost woke up the dead. Thranduíl moaned in pain—there was no way to undo this and appear credible in front of the Dwarves. Even if their ears were not as efficient as the Elves’, they nonetheless were not deaf. Out of despair, he slapped the Golden Knight, accompanied with “Shut the Void up, you fucking walking Morgothian utter cretin, for Manwë’s bloody sake!” Glorfindel, shocked, forgot to take offense from the slap; never did he believe he would once have the privilege to hear the Prince swear. At him, moreover. A tremor between his legs manifested its misplaced excitement. The Captain put the blame on evil and suppressed his hormonal whim. 

Tranduíl huffed in satisfaction, finally sense came to Glorfindel. Little did he know his companion was currently tortured by nonsensical impulses.

They spiralled through various staircases and long corridors. Most of the work was finished, except of course the lost pits in which they both got lost (‘Dwarves have an excellent sense of orientation in this extensive maze,’ had commented Glorfindel, completely ignoring that a piece from the wall had almost violently landed on Thranduíl’s head.)

Carefully going down some very narrow stairs (the Greenwood Prince displayed his excellent Wood Elf climbing skills and looked like a lizard crawling on the wall), they heard noises coming from the left end of a small corridor. Silently, they swiftly moved to what appeared to be a Dwarvish pub with Dwarves and Elves drinking and chatting together. One of the Elves, the one who looked like a bulked version of Erestor who ommitted to wash, disdainfully thought Thranduíl, noticed them and exclaimed, “We have visitors!” He screamed at the barman, a Dwarf with dark locks and red beads in his beard, “Narvi! Do you know them?” This sudden interruption was not left unheard by the Dwarves and the Elves sitting at the table where Bulked-Erestor was, for they all stared in awe of the ‘Golden Knight from legends, could it be possible?’. Pink rushed to Glorfindel’s cheeks, who appreciated attention only in controlled environment. Thranduíl, like the Prince of ice he was, kept a face devoid of facial expression. 

The bartender came to them. “Do you know them?” frowned Bulked-Erestor. 

“Of course not. Do I?” grinned the Dwarf. 

“I’m afraid not. I am Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, or well, I used to,” started the Captain, “and this is-”

“Greenleaf of the Woodland Realm,” finished Thranduíl, his deep voice calm and cool. 

The Dwarf considered them. He was used to Elves, being a close friend to Celebrimbor and working with several Ñoldor, but these two were new specimens. One was pale and still as a statue, as pretty as that Maia of Mahal, while the other was a bright beacon of light.

“Glorfindel? _The_ Glorfindel? Balrogslayer? From Gondolin? Reincarnated by Mandos?” shouted Bulked-Erestor, as excited as a bug high on caffeine. 

The Vanya scratched his neck, “Originally, I am from Valmar and was sent to Gondolin by Manwë, and I was in Beleriand before, but yes, it is me.” He offered the Ñoldo a shy smile. The Elda gasped—how to blame him, Glorfindel was dangerously charismatic. 

“Calm,” gently reprimanded the bartender. He turned to the visitors, “I am Narvi. What are you two doing here?” 

“We are looking for Celebrimbor,” answered the Captain.

“I know,” said the Dwarf. “Everyone heard you when you screamed his name.”

Glorfindel opened his mouth, hung there the time he processed this. 

“Why asking, then?”

“It is polite, Master Elf.”

“Why not helping us when your head me, then?”

“It was funnier to bet if you would get lost and never find us. Obviously not, I owe Tyelpë money,” groaned Narvi. 

Thranduíl’s lips slightly moved of disapproval.

“Splendid. Tell me, Master Narvi, where is Celebrimbor, for I much desire to speak with him?” replied Glorfindel, unamused. 

“He is right behind you.”

The balrogslayer jumped, exclaimed and warmly hugged the craftsmith. Thranduíl decided admiring his boots made of warg and troll leather was far more interesting than staring at an effusion of sentiments. 

“What are you doing here?” enquired the Ñoldo. 

“We are going to Lothlorien,” explained Glorfindel. Thranduíl jerked his head up; he had not known Lothlorien was part of the plan. Well. Visiting Lord Celeborn and sleeping in a proper bed before departing to Mordor for good were not prospects he would vehemently refuse. 

“I see. Why didn’t you pass by the main entrance?”

“The main entrance?”

Celebrimbor stared at Glorfindel. 

“Yes,” he articulated, “we built stairs and bridges to make Moria accessible for the Dwarves’ trade partners from the Misty Mountains. In front of the part of the forest where trees are distinctively black.”

The Golden Knight, at loss of words, glanced at Thranduíl. This last one shrugged. 

“If you had done so, you would not have been lost,” sighed Celebrimbor. “Oh, well. You and your companion may follow me, I will show you a map. I shall be back soon, Narvi.” 

Glorfindel and Thranduíl obediently followed him. The Prince, a bit in retreat, fetched a piece of deer meat from his back, while glaring at the Ñoldo who was now animatedly chatting in Quenya to the Captain. The Sinda admitted to himself befriending Celebrimbor insured them a safe way through Moria, although he let the befriending responsibility in the hands of Glorfindel; he had not intentions to engage with the grandson of Fëanor. They entered a small room with a lot of plans, prototypes and books displayed on the table. In the back of the room was sitting a soft and pale figure by the fire. 

“Annatar! We have visitors,” cheerfully announced Celebrimbor. 

Annatar rose from his chair. He wore a robe made of multiple layers of light black silk and an incredible quantity of jewels adorned his neck, arms and hands—and even his ankles and feet! He was barefoot. His hair was white, floating around his shoulders, and his skin, paler than his hair, emitted soft golden dust. His eyes, of a deep orange colouration, contrasted with his immaculate physique. 

Glorfindel cast a warning glance to Thranduíl; ways of the Valar and Maiar were strange and not to be questioned, but rarely did they interact with the Children of Ilúvatar outside Valinor. This smelled bad. Unless this Annatar was one of the missing blue wizards. The Prince was more interested in looking incredibly bored rather and chewing his meat than paying attention—at best, he was impressed by Annatar’s jewelry. 

“This is Annatar, a Maia of Aulë,” introduced Celebrimbor. His gaze flew from the Ainu to Glorfindel to Thranduíl, who had not reacted at all. “You,” he started, “we have not been introduced.” 

“Indeed not.” 

The Ñoldo waited. Thranduíl waited back. Annatar was mildly amused. Glorfindel groaned, smacking the Prince’s head with his hand, “He is Greenleaf. We are traveling together.”

“Of course, we are. You would never have accepted that a stranger follows your trail all the time.” 

The Balrogslayer sighed.

“You are very, very pretty,” commented Celebrimbor. “Annatar, look at him! Could he be Maia?”

The Ainu hummed, “Not entirely. He does not glow. Unless he uses his magic not to, obviously.”

“But no, I am a Wood Elf.”

“You are rather pale and silvery for a Wood Elf,” interjected Celebrimbor.

“Have you ever seen one before?” retorted Thranduíl, defensive. 

“No,” admitted the Ñoldo. 

“Then I would refrain from judging.” 

The Woodland Prince then let a few insults slip out in the Greenwood Nandorin tongue. 

“Very well,” intervened Glorfindel, fearing Thranduíl would start to growl at everyone around him, “tell me Tyelpë, what are your plans concerning the current constructions? I would also greatly appreciate if you could give us a map—I do not fancy being lost underground.” 

The craftsmith grinned and gestured at his friend to follow him around the table.

“This is a gate, the gate of Moria,” he pointed at a plan on the table, “I consulted Narvi and I will personally manage its building. Moreover, this door will be magic; only those who speak friend shall enter.”

“I see,” responded the Captain, “so, a password?” 

“Exactly.”

“What is it?”

“I think,” interrupted Annatar with his honeyed voice, “revealing the password is not the safe way to proceed.”

“Ani, how in Manwë’s name will he be able to enter without knowing the password if he wants to visit again,” threw Celebrimbor. 

“If,” highlighted Thranduíl. 

Glorfindel shot him a glare. Annatar’s lips drew in a faint smile; he started to like this one. 

“The password is ‘mellon’,” declared Tyelpë.

“‘Friend’,” Glorfindel could not believe his ears, this was the worst password he had heard during his two lives!

“Yes,” sheepishly justified the Ñoldo, “speak ‘friend’, and enter.” 

“Have you talked to Mithrandir, as of late?” 

“No, why?”

“Nothing. The kind of things he would be delighted to say.”

Celebrimbor hesitated between feeing offended or flattered.

“Is that,” frowned Glorfindel, “actually, isn’t that a Fëanorian star?” 

“Oh? Yes, yes, it is. The ghost of my grandfather came to me, and mildly suggested to put one here. Can you believe it? He was released from Mandos and now travels free in Arda.”

Next to Glorfindel, Thranduíl looked like he had forcefully assisted to the copulation of wargs. No living being could possibly appear more outraged.

“He what,” the Prince paled. 

“The ways of the Valar are strange,” recited Annatar. “He is no longer chained.”

“How is that a brilliant idea,” grouched the Sinda, “last he was alive, his existence led to wars and massacres. I would prefer Sauron to stop hiding. I do not like him, but at the very least, he is not the victim of his reckless impulses and proves to be competent in his villainy.”

The Maia mentally noted to seduce this Elf to the Dark Side and to promote him Sergeant. 

Celebrimbor was under the impression he was on Greenleaf’s blacklist forever more with no chance of redemption. Glorfindel, figuratively heavily sweating, diverted the conversation, “Tyelpë, by any chance, is there a map I could borrow? We ought to be in Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn’s realm as soon as possible.” 

The Ñoldo blinked before coming to his senses, “Yes. Of course I do, come over here.” He gestured at the balrogslayer, commanding him to move to the couch, where some rolls rested on a small table next to it. Thranduíl stayed behind, pretexing a sudden deep interest in the chandelier above his head, under the mocking eye of Annatar. Maia or not, the Prince detested to be stared at without his consent and shot him a glare. Annatar faintly smiled, but understood the message and went next to Celebrimbor. 

After a moment, Glorfindel passed next to the Sinda, tapped him on the shoulder, indicating him to follow. Celebrimbor exchanged a few words with the warrior in Quenya—Thranduíl noted Quenya sounded dull in comparison to the Golden Knight’s lively Quendya—before clasping his arms and wishing him goodbye. The Wood Elf contented himself to merely nod at the smith and the Ainu. 

“My muscles are big, aren’t they?”

Annatar slowly turned to Celebrimbor, “Pardon me?”

“My muscles. Are they big?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t they? Don’t tell me you are developing another ridiculous complex?”

Celebrimbor blushed, “But Glorfindel, he-… He’s impressive.” 

“Listen,” huffed Annatar, “I am nowhere near the bulky kind, that does not negate anything to my value.” 

The Ñoldo stared, “You do not count. I saw you change into a dark cloud of rain, a small mouse, and then a giant black wolf. You could grow your muscles by snapping your fingers! I cannot do that!” 

The Maia rubbed his forehead, “If you jump in the miserable hole of self-pity and compare yourself to others, you may never go back to reason and good thinking. Your flesh prison is temporary in order to maintain you alive, to allow your fëa to absorb the information the environment gives you. It matters little once you move to the Undying Lands.” 

He patted the Elf on the shoulder, “You are more muscular than your father was. Now, come, we have rings to forge.” 

“So, this is a bridge.”

Arms folded, Glorfindel looked at what was supposed to be a bridge. Rather, an imitation of it. A draft of a bridge. 

“Khazad-dûm,” he precised. “We must cross it. I reckon I expected something more…,” he vaguely gestured, “grand.” 

“What part of ‘under construction’ do you not understand,” grumbled Thranduíl. “I much prefer a simple bridge, no matter how pathetic, that accomplishes its job and allows us to cross it and to make it to the other end alive, rather than narrow wooden planks high in the hair, ornated with pearls and what have you.” 

They crossed it. Thanks to their Elven senses, they needed no more than the torch Glorfindel had in hand, gift from Celebrimbor, to see in the dark. 

“I see the exit in front of us,” said Thranduil, once they reached the other side. “Moria is close to Lothlorien, isn’t it… not… Glorfindel?” 

He turned around himself. The balrogslayer was not behind him like he was a second ago. Panicked, the Greenwood Elf screamed his name. He looked at the empty hollow space under the bridge with faint horror. He yelled louder, terrified. He swore to Morgoth he would strangle Glorfindel in Mandos for dying right there under his eyes. A hand appeared, followed by another, and then, a shiny golden mane. 

“Fret not, the ground is not deep,” said the Captain, as if falling down a bridge were a mundane activity. He climbed to the surface and brushed his clothes. “I’m afraid the torch slipped from my hand and rolled away, but,” he glanced at the hole, “we are capable to manage without.” 

The Prince was looking at him with strange intensity. 

“Thranduíl?”

“You,” icily ordered the Sinda, “are not allow to die. Not on my watch. Don’t you dare.” He was shaking. 

He took Glorfindel’s wrist and carried him to the exit. 

He let him go only when they were at the border of the Golden Woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pity Glorfindel who has to deal with Thranduíl giving the entire planet attitude.


	9. Chapter IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which 'Sauron' and Celebrían eat soup with crackers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf enjoys chilling at Caras Galadhon.

“You can let go of my wrist.”

The Prince did not stir. He stared at a fixed point in front of him, lost in concentration. Glorfindel shook his arm; nothing would do. The Captain waved his hand in front of the Sinda’s eyes. 

No reaction at all. This was strange. 

He started to rumble. 

They had entered the Golden Woods. Thranduil had been walking between the trees, knowing where he would go. He was home in a forest he did not know—he needed not, he felt it through his fëa. He had suddenly turned around and stopped. 

Glorfindel jumped, startled. He heard a deep hollow sound. The trees were talking back. 

“We must go this way,” translated Thranduil. “We-… why are you shaking your arm?”

“Because I would like my wrist to be free from your grip!”

The Wood Elf glanced at his hand. It indeed was holding the bracer of the Golden Knight. “Huh,” he managed with all the verve he was capable of. He awkwardly brushed his trousers, cleared his throat and walked forward. 

Well, that was curious, thought Glorfindel. Thranduil was proud, yet easily embarrassed. After an hour of walking, the Prince turned to his colleague, “Are you good at swinging in trees?”

“I am decent?” 

“In comparison to Ñoldor?” scoffed the Sinda. “Certainly, you are. What about the Vanyar?”

“We usually walk, although we are excellent marathon runners.” 

“Perfect. I will swing from tree to tree, and you will run.”

Doubtful, the balrogslayer enquired, “What is that strategy?”

“I merely want the Galadhrims to notice us quickly, they will lead us to a talan, and to the Lord and Lady later on.”

“I suppose you only wish for a proper bed,” teased Glorfindel. 

“Oh, please. My bed is a large tree trunk with blankets and pillows at the second residence. I want to talk to the Lady and ask her why Fate has bound me to a stupid silmaril,” the Wood Elf spat disdainfully. His partner patted him on the shoulder. “Alright. You run; I climb,” ordered the Prince. They executed themselves. The golden Captain was an excellent runner, fast and agile. Probably more so than a horse, remarked Thranduil while he was swinging and jumping from a branch to another, feeling in his element. Yes, this sensation of flying suited him better than walking on the ground—or Khazad-dûm. He had no intolerance to caves per say, but the act of placing a foot in front of the other while standing was dull. 

Suddenly, the Prince saw a shadow, a Galadhrim perched few trees away, her bow tense and ready. She targeted Glorfindel. The Sinda speeded up, gained momentum to dive, and hit her feet first. She let a surprise scream out. They violently landed on the ground. Thranduil rolled away from her and drew one of his swords. He stood up and menacingly approached her, the tip of his weapon to her throat. A strong arm around his waist stopped him. 

“Don’t.”

Glorfindel.

“She tried to kill you,” hissed his companion. 

“I would have heard the bow. She was doing her job.”

“No, she was not.” 

The elleth quickly took a dagger from her boot, ready to defend herself and to attack. Thranduil screeched at her like a Nazgûl. She stepped back from the shock. Elves jumped from behind the trees and drew their bows at the two travelers. 

“The Eldamarins breathe so loud, we could have shot them in the dark,” said a cynical voice. The Marchwarden walked to them, confidently.

“Valinorean, from Valmar more precisely.”

He narrowed his eyes, “What did you say?”

“I am from Valmar,” repeated Glorfindel, arrogantly smirking. “And he,” he designated Thranduil, whom he had not let go of yet, “is from Doriath. Originally. I moved to Beleriand, lived in Gondolin, and now reside Imladris. He moved long ago to Greendwood the Great. You may now take your preconceived ideas against Eldamarins back.”

“The Halls of Mandos,” interrupted Thranduil, staring right at the Marchwarden, “he also resided in the Halls of Mandos.” He added, with the wit that was his signature, “he is quite the nomad. Now, Glorfindel, would you please refrain from holding me? I shan’t take away any life, I am no kinslayer. I require to be taken to Caras Galadhon as soon as possible. If, obviously, the Galadhrims around us will cooperate well enough to not attempt to shoot us.” 

The balrogslayer obeyed, albeit warily. The Sinda put his sword back in its scabbard, cracked his fingers and looked at the archers expectedly, “Well?”

“I am Haldir of Lórien. You requested to be brought before his Lord and Lady. Who are you? I do not let scavengers enter the city.”

“If I introduced myself as Thranduil Oropherion, you would not believe me, you may as well call me ‘Legolas’.” 

“’Greenleaf’,” translated Haldir. “Are you not Doriathrin? The Sindarin tongue was spoken in this forest, not Nandorin.” 

“I may or may not have learnt the language since the Doom of the Ñoldor,” smirked the Prince, using the tongue of the people who claimed his father as King, making sure his speech was heavily tainted with the Greenwood accent. “Scavenger or not might I be,” he continued, switching back to his aristocratic Sindarin, “but you know the identity of my companion, this is enough to lead us to your Lord and Lady.” 

“I have heard of Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower,” slowly placed the Marchwarden, carefully glancing at the balrogslayer, “but I have yet to meet him myself.”

“You were an infant when I last came to Caras Galadhon, the High King and his herald,” provided Glorfindel, “Lady Celebrían was a wee babe when we traveled here.” 

“With all those pleasantries being exchanged,” mocked Thranduil, “you cannot deny the portraits of him in history books are accurate. Plus, his skin, his mane, his name; all of him is of gold.” 

“What a compliment, isn’t it touching,” sarcastically muttered Glorfindel in Quendya. 

“I will give you the benefit of the doubt,” declared Haldir. “But you, Greenleaf, shall be blind-folded, for you compromised the security of one of our patrols.” 

The Woodland Elf moaned, “For defending my friend? Fantastic.” 

Glorfindel sighed. 

“Follow me,” commanded the Galadhrim, ignoring him. The elleth glared at Thranduil before following Haldir, but Thranduil was too busy noticing a spider web above his head to pay attention to her anymore. 

“I know you very much hate to be given orders,” whispered Glorfindel behind his ears in Quenya—he did not know whether the Prince could communicate in Quenya or not, but he knew he could understand, “but please cooperate a little more for our sake. They look young, at best they have passed their first millennium. Mayhap this Haldir older, he seems to have greater historical knowledge, or well-developed facial recognition skills. Nevertheless, they do not have our life experience.”

The Prince stayed silent.

“Oh, and,” added the warrior, “I would very much appreciate if you could silent the fact I lived during a certain while at Tirion, for the sake of shutting them up against their prejudices towards the people from Eldamar.” 

A smirk of agreement responded to Glorfindel’s last words. They walked in silence, albeit interrupted by Thranduil who sang like a bird. An archer reduced him to silence but gasped when birds answered the Wood Elf’s call. 

“That’s the grey wizard,” mused the balrogslayer aloud, still in Quenya, who recognised Gandalf’s chirp. The Greenwood Elda nodded. The Golden Knight wondered why in Valmar would Gandalf be in the woods, but he shrugged it off; of all the Maiar, Istari were the strangest. 

They reached some talans. As Glorfindel and Thranduil understood, it constituted a small rest camp for the Marchwardens. The woods were rocked by the twilight of the sunset.

“Night is nigh,” announced Haldir.

“Aye no shit, ye don’t say,” muttered Thranduil in Westron with an accent Glorfindel could not recognise. He nevertheless pressed his foot against the Prince’s, superbly ignoring a protesting glare. 

“You will sleep in this talan,” ordered the Galadhrim. “We continue at dawn.” 

“Thranduil!” shouted the Golden Knight, “behave like an Elf for once and use the rope ladder instead of climbing on the tree like a lizard!” He grumbled, “Those Silvans of Eryn Galen, I swear to Manwë.” 

The archers were glancing at him and the Prince alternatively with interest. “Haldir,” one of the Nandor shyly interjected, “he called ‘him’ Thranduil.” 

“Are you certain it is a good idea to blindfold the Prince of Greenwood the Great? I would hate the wrath of the Lady to fall on us… Or worse, King Oropher’s,” shared another. 

Haldir, seemingly uncomfortable, pondered this. “Can you assure me he is Oropherion?” he addressed Glorfindel.

“Yes, he is,” confirmed this last one. 

“I see.” The Marchwarden frowned, “Pray tell, how long have you known each other?”

The balrogslayer let out a sigh—he had lost track of days and nights, plus never succeeded to wrap his head around the Time of the Sun. Good ol’ Years of the Trees, dearly missed they were. “Over a month,” he answered.

“That’s not good enough.”

“That’s-, you-, what?” The warrior widened his eyes.

“My Lord,” articulated Haldir, “it is impossible for anyone to pretend to be you—Manwë would be quick to know and intervene. However, it is easier to pretend to be someone who is no emissary or favourite of the Valar. I have never met the Prince in person, Greenleaf brought no official sceal from King Oropher, one is never too sure. I do not have the gift of foresight my Lady possesses. Moreover, Sauron has been silent for long, who knows if he is not the Prince in disguise?”

Glorfindel was speechless yet could not refute such logic. He massaged his temples, loudly exhaling his annoyance, and climbed into the talan. Laying down would be good for him, he felt a headache besetting him. Thranduil did not miss the occasion to rest as well; he was laying on a couch, a cover wrapped around his body. The balrogslayer undid his armour while looking for a blanket and a pillow. He laid on the couch that was next to his companion. 

“Thranduil?”

“What is it,” sleepily responded this last one.

“What was this accent? The one you had when you spoke Westron.”

“The one from Laketown. ‘Tis an accent of old, old from the perspective of Men who no longer speak with it. Only the Dwarves from Erebor do, and the Elves who trade with them.” 

“I see.” Glorfindel blinked, remembering he had something more vital to communicate than the evolution of the accents to be heard at the northern border of the Woodland realm. “You will be blinfolded tomorrow, Haldir cannot verify your identity with an official seal, he believes you are Sauron.” 

The Sinda chuckled, “Arrogance painted his face, but now I like this young one. I am sure he is a favourite of Celeborn—the Lord adores safety.” 

The Captain raised his brows, decided to not add anything further, turned to his side, wished his partner goodnight, and let his spirit fall in Irmo’s arms. 

As promised, an archer came to wake them up at dawn. Glorfindel thanked the Galadhrim and glanced at Thranduil. Oh. His gaze was dead, his moves slow and sloppy, his usual alertness had escaped away from him. Obviously, someone still was prisoner of the realm of Elven dreams. He reached to the Wood Elf, gently shaking him. This last one stupidly stared at the wooden floor. Finally, he blinked, looked at Glorfindel and frowned, “Why am I standing?” 

“The Galadhrim had not successfully waken you up,” answered Glorfindel, amused. Although he pursued, suddenly concerned, “Are you not well? Elves do not sleep like Men, yet you do.”

The Prince passed a hand through his face, “Do I? I do not recall doing so… Mayhap I…” He did not finish his phrase; his beautiful features were painted with worry. He rested his hand on his lower stomach where the silmaril was kept and hidden, which did not slip unnoticed of the Golden Knight’s knowing gaze. 

“Mayhap Morgoth’s magic did not entirely leave your body,” finished this last one. Pale blue eyes met his, pleading and desperate. “Mithrandir is in these woods, presumably with Galadriel and Celeborn, the Istar and the Lady shall deal with it to put you at ease.”

Haldir’s head peaked through the door, “Are you finished? Hurry, we do not have forever!”

“In a moment, Master Haldir. I merely was making sure ‘Sauron’ would not reduce this forest to ashes,” jovially retorted Glorfindel. The Marchwarden unhappily huffed before exiting the talan. 

“Aye mate, one point for sarcasm,” commented Thranduil in Westron. 

The Captain heavily grinned.

As promised, the Sinda found himself blindfolded, guided by Glorfindel who took him by the arm through the sinuous trail. As revenge, the Wood Elf communicated with trees in order to annoy the Galadhrims. Haldir did not know what to make of an impostor who could speak with the vegetation. Was Sauron able to do so? This certainly required expertise. He then reminded himself Sauron was a former Maia of Aulë, who knew if Yavanna herself did not teach Aulë’s Maiar how to talk to the forest. 

The cloth was taken away from the Wood Elf’s eyes. He blinked, adjusting to the lighting. In front of them stood grand golden woods. 

“Caras Galadhon,” recited Haldir, proudly, “the heart of Elvendom.” 

Thranduil folded his arms, raised his brows and nodded. He muttered something in the Greenwood tongue. The Galadhrims turned to him briefly, but unfortunately for them, did not understand a word. 

“Fear not, for I did not insult the place,” lightly said the Prince in Nandorin. 

“I should move here,” dropped Glorfindel, “the leaves fit with my hair.” 

The Sinda looked at him like he was a superficial moron. Haldir swallowed his disapproval; he did not dare to confront the balrogslayer of legends. “What,” replied the Captain, “I gave my compliments to the Lord and Lady last I came. I was with Finarfin, mind you, it’s he who said I should upgrade from the Golden Flower to the Golden Tree.” 

The archers froze, speechless. They had not realised how ancient Glorfindel was, for being familiar with Finarfin, the father of Lady Galadriel, who herself was born before the First Age! 

“I tend to forget how much of a fossil you are,” Thranduil shook his head. The Galadhrims mentally approved with ‘Sauron’—although ‘Sauron’ would better to keep his mouth shut, for someone who was there during the Music.

“I am not this old…” whined the warrior. “There is a significant time lapse between my two lives!” 

“I suppose the Halls of Mandos were not pleasant enough for you to stay forever,” deadpanned the Prince.

“Very,” merrily exclaimed Glorfindel, “Ecthelion asked if it were possible to reside the Halls permanently, he had no wish to sail to Valinor. Alright, I am impatient to compare my hair with Galadriel’s once more, let us go!” 

They walked closer. Thranduil fell to his knees, his hands clenched on his lower stomach. He felt dizzy and weakened, his ears buzzed. 

“...Il? ...Uil? …Thranduil!” Glorfindel was in front of him, the face tainted with worry, “It’s the magic, isn’t it?” The silmaril bearer slowly nodded. He gripped onto the Golden Knight’s shoulder; his body was trembling; he could not control his members. The warrior understood and turned around. The Greenwood Elf climbed on his back. 

“Someone, warn Mithrandir, only him knows how to help,” ordered the Vanya. He suspected the magic had not left the Prince’s body. It would explain him closing his eyes during his sleep. 

“How do you know Mithrandir is here? You must also be aware the Lady uses magic to keep creatures of the dark at bay. This is proof you are carrying Sauron on your back, since he negatively reacted to it” argued Haldir. 

Glorfindel impatiently sighed, “Sauron’s power is beyond the one of a mere Elf, and beyond the one of a Maia. Melkor, who you call ‘Morgoth’, disdains incompetence and weakness. Granted he could play the comedy, but Sauron is hidden Manwë himself cannot tell where. And I know the grey wizard is here because I do. We have no time to stay still and discuss.” On these words, he ran on the long stairs. 

Once in the talan of the rulers of Lothlorien, he carefully put Thranduil back to the floor. This last one was paler than death and covered with sweat. The Sinda brushed the room with his gaze in panic, and saw a vase, to which he ran. He took it and miserably emptied his stomach in it. He sat down, the vase between his legs. Glorfindel winced; this was Galadriel’s vase. 

The Golden Knight heard footsteps. The wizard was rushing forward, his staff in hand. He illuminated the room with piercing light and threw it to the Greenwood Prince. The Vanya witnessed the scene in great confusion. The Sinda appeared slightly better once the light faded. 

“Black magic,” Gandalf addressed Glorfindel, “does not like protection spells. I felt it activate itself in his body. The silmaril prevents it from growing further, but I’m afraid it does not suppress it.” 

“The _silmaril?_ ” exclaimed Haldir, who had stayed behind. 

“Yes, the silmarils,” vaguely gestured Glorfindel. “Fëanor’s shiny rocks. Thranduil bears one to destroy it. I hope it is the ultimate confirmation to prove you he is not Sauron.”

“Who said ‘Sauron’?”

Galadriel had entered the room, closely followed by Celeborn. 

“It’s a long story,” groaned the balrogslayer. “Let’s move him to a room first.”

But Thranduil was already unconscious. 

In the living room, Celeborn was sitting next to Glorfindel, pouring him a glass of wine, while Galadriel sat in front of them. 

“The journey would not be so bad if he were not so… obstinate,” complained the Captain. 

“Why is that?” enquired the Lady, amused. 

“He has too much wits for his own good,” sighed the balrogslayer. “This, and the way he communicates. He is Doriathrin by appearance and elegance, but he is no Prince of Doriath.”

Celeborn was looking at him questioningly.

“He is animal-like. He hisses like a snake, chirps like a bird and growls like a tiger. He moves like a lizard in the trees,” detailed the warrior after swallowing a sip of wine. Dorwinion. It was Thranduil who would be glad about the rulers of Caras Galadhon drinking his rubicund nectar. 

“Oh, this? Typical of Greenwood the Great, my dear,” smirked the Lord of the Galadhrims. “Oropher and his people quickly became distinct from other Elvish societies, which was increased by Morgoth’s invasion—being able to tell from friend to foe became crucial. Not only the Elves, but also the Men, although they are very few in the Woodland realm.” 

The Sinda paused, then glanced back and forth between Glorfindel and Galadriel. 

“What is it, again,” said this last one.

“Remember when you and Glorfindel asked me to decree who has the most beautiful hair between you two?”

The Golden Warrior nodded enthusiastically.

“Both are equal in their beauty, however, in terms of practicality, Artanis, I am deeply sorry, but Glorfindel wins, for his hair does not reach past his bum, which eases his moves when he sits.”

Glorfindel cheered; Galadriel pulled a sour face. “I may tie it in a bun…” she mumbled. 

“I am sorry—not at all, really—to interrupt this joyful conversation, but I bring news,” announced Gandalf, entering the room.

Glorfindel, eager to know more, accidentally spilled wine on Celeborn. 

The wizard sat next to Galadriel, took his head between his hands and loudly sighed. “Fucking Melkor and his stupid antics, why can’t Manwë send Ulmo or Tulkas to restrain his brother,” he cursed. “The silmaril did not suck the black magic away, it only put a stop to its propagation. Thranduil cannot physically separate from the silmaril. If he does, the magic will take possession of his body and corrupt him to make him Morgoth’s doll.” 

“But we are going to Mount Doom to destroy it,” opposed Glorfindel. “The silmaril cannot go back to Melkor, or the ghost of Fëanor that has escaped from Mandos.” 

“Exactly, the Mountain of Fire,” repeated Gandalf, grimly. “We cannot allow the Prince to be corrupted, neither can we keep this silmaril part of his world. The Prince has no choice, but to cast himself with it.” 

“He knows about it, doesn’t he,” said Galadriel, pensive. 

“He does,” answered the grey wizard. “Your daughter is with him to keep him company.”

“Mithrandir, it cannot be what I think it is,” weakly responded Glorfindel. “We cannot make him the second Eärendil of this world for a silmaril once more.”

“There is worse,” continued the Istar, “Saruman knows for certain there are more silmarils hidden. Fëanor officially forged three—the one the Prince has is the same Lúthien and Beren had passed to Eärendil, who then accidentally dropped it when he slayed Ancalagon, which was caught by Celegorm, who passed it to Elrond’s kidnap father, Maglor, who unintentionally threw it at me. Long story short. The White wizard supposes there is one more simaril, or maybe two. Where are they, we do not know.” 

The Vanya abruptly stood up and ran to the guest room, his cup of wine still in hand. 

Thranduil was sitting on the bed, eating vegetable soups with crackers with Celebrían—Celebrían eating her own soup, not finding her person swimming in the meal of the Prince amongst the salted biscuits. He had yet to digest what Gandalf had revealed him concerning Morgoth’s magic; instead, he focused on nourishing his body and discussing trivial matters with the young Lady of Lothlorien. 

Glorfindel burst into the room, alarmed. “Thranduil!” he shouted. “You’re awake! Do you-, do you know?”

The Prince placed his bowl of soup on the drawer and slowly nodded. Attentive, Celebrían was keeping an open eye. The warrior put his glass of wine next to the bowl, fell on his knees and cupped the Prince’s face between his hands, “There is always hope,” he declared, “even if the Undying Lands are not calling for you. There is always a way to come back with the mercy of Elbereth. I am here; I died, and I revived. Do not let your forthcoming end defeat you.” 

The Sinda swallowed, unable to pronounce a single word. His eyes glistened and he shook his head away, the heart heavy. The balrogslayer paled, “No… The magic… can it corrupt the fëa?”

“Nothing for certain,” answered Celebrían. But it was too late, Glorfindel had already exited, screaming Gandalf’s name in the corridors.

“I must go,” softly said the young Lady. “I shall leave you both a bit of intimacy.” She took her bowl and Thranduil’s before adding, “Good luck. Glorfindel will throw a tantrum.” She winked to the Wood Elf who huffed and went out the room. 

The Captain was back as quickly as he had departed. He jumped on the bed, rolled to his side and passed his arm around Thranduil’s stomach. “Mithrandir does not know,” he burbled against the Prince’s waist. “The magic of Morgoth is powerful and the fate of the fëa undiscovered by other than Mandos and Manwë—and Melkor himself. I refuse to see you cast yourself to death for the sake of Arda.” 

The Prince slid down to lie and rested his forehead against Glorfindel’s. He held onto the balrogslayer’s shirt. 

The two travellers stayed in Lothlorien for almost a week. Thranduil recovered quickly, and Glorfindel often raised his fist at the sky, requesting Manwë to intervene against the injustice and nonsense of the world Melkor was prone to spread. The Prince, for his part, took pleasure in escalating the highest tree of Caras Galadhon—one could take the Greenwood Elf out of the Woodland realm, but never the Woodland realm out of the Elda! 

Galadriel, Celeborn and Celebrían guided them to the river they would navigate to pursue their journey. She had reserved for them a small boat which prow was a sculpted swan. Glorfindel said the Lady has a developped sense of historical dramatics. 

Facing the river, Galadriel solemnly pronounced, “Before you depart, gifts will be offered to you, for chance must be on your side.” She nodded and Celebrian approached, a bow in hand. “Thranduil, once born Doriathrin, son of King Oropher, Prince and heir to the throne of Greenwood the Great, here is one of the best bows of the Galadhrims; its rope is made of Elvish hair. You shall also receive arrows sculpted in our best wood. We have had word of your talent at archery.” The Sinda, touched, bowed deeply. 

“And for you, Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, now Captain of Imladris, balrogslayer and long-lasting friend of the Noldor, here a shield of the House of Finarfin, forged by Mahtan ‘Urundil’ Aulendur. May copper allies to gold.” Celeborn walked to gift him the shield. Glorfindel, surprised, bowed his head and grinned heavily. The Lady of the Golden Woods chuckled. 

“Now, my friends,” said Celeborn, “embark on this boat and follow the river; Uinen shall guide you.” The Lord discreetly gave Glorfindel a compass; the warrior had a terrible sense of orientation outside the realm he resided and could not talk to the animals to find his way. 

They all bid their farewells the way of the Eldar. Thranduil looked back and grinned to Celebrían; the young Lady smiled the same. Unspoken words passed between them. The Sinda then hurried to walk next to Glorfindel. 

“Tell me,” this last one started.

The Prince hummed.

“Did she give you a bow because you forgot yours?”

“Not exactly,” chuckled Thranduil. “Father has given me these two swords. I value my personal bow too much to risk to lose it in this quest.”

“You are a strange Elf.” Glorfindel cleared his throat, “In all confessions… I did forget my shield home.”

Thranduil was not surprised. 

***

_Three days ago..._

Thranduil heard a discreet knock against the doorframe. He put his book down. It was Haldir, the Marchwarden. He gestured him to come in. 

“Your Highness, may I have a word?” 

The Prince laid against the chairback and nodded. As confident and arrogant the Nando presented himself when they first met, he now uncomfortably fidgeted. He put a knee on the floor, placed a hand upon his heart and bowed, “I apologise for mistaking you for Sauron. This insult is one of the greatest. May you please forgive me, for I knew not better. I caused you offence.” The Woodland Elf froze, speechless. He then let out a good heartened laughter. Haldir raised his head, confusion drawn on his face, “My Lord?” 

“Oh, please, stand up,” giggled Thranduil. “You did your job. Besides, I would have done the same. It’s all forgiven, rather, it entertained Lord Celeborn and Lady Celebrían very much. Glorfindel, perhaps not, but I can deal with him.” 

The Galadhrim scratched his neck, “Yes, this is what Lady Celebrían told me. She said it was for this reason Lord Celeborn helds me in good regards as a Marchwarden.”

“Us Sindar prefer to be wary than not,” smiled the Woodland Elf. “Draw yourself a chair, I have certain suspicions concerning Sauron—so does Glorfindel—mayhap I could use a third opinion?” 

Haldir gladly acquiesced. They discussed the likelihood of Annatar being Sauron, the naïveté of Celebrimbor, the robes of Gil-galad and the vile taste of Mannish sour beer. 

Kilometers away, Annatar gave his ‘little Tyelpë’ a heart attack by turning into a pool of lava in the bath, while scheming about a certain Ring of Power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an idiot. I had thought _for years_ Thranduil was spelled with an accented i. How wrong was I. F.
> 
> Also, I, the author, forgot to give Glorfindel a shield, which was solved by the gifts of Galadriel, hue. (Many thanks to Inwiste and JazTheBard helping me to find gifts to give!!)


	10. Chapter X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kidnap dads cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In doubt, put the blame on Gandalf's weed. Or say it's Our Holy Lord Milker's fault (it's always Milker schemes from the deep Void.)

Glorfindel moaned. 

They had been rowing for two days and three nights. Blisters covered his hands, his arms were sore, blood circulation has vanished from his legs. Thranduil, in front of him, was hardly doing any better; the poor ellon was muttering incantations to Uinen and asked Ossë to give them speed by the current. 

“The sky is darkening,” announced the balrogslayer. Clouds were indeed masking the azure sky. 

The Prince gazed up, sighed, and promptly went back to his former occupation, which was to mumble Valar-know-what in the Greenwood tongue to the Maiar of the Sea. 

“We are going to the shore,” declared Glorfindel. The Sinda nodded and continued to row. Once the boat reached the land, the Captain jumped. He crashed like a wet cape—his lack of blood circulation unfortunately took over his vibrant enthusiasm to walk on the ground again. He stayed still, his front side against the wet sand.

Thranduil cautiously pressed his row in the soil, slowly moved his legs in order to avoid being covered in mud like his partner by falling down and went out of the boat. He ran a few steps before falling on his knees, his row still in hand. He grunted, famished and tired. 

“If an army of Orcs give us a delightful surprise attack,” said Glorfindel, “we are dead Elves.” He stretched his legs, shaking them gently. The Wood Elf imitated him. Oh. It felt slightly better. Or less bad, depending on the perspective, but Thranduil certainly was no fervent partisan of positivism. He cast Glorfindel a glance; this last one nodded, understanding the request. They both stood up, tottering. They carried the boat into the woods—the Prince had found a large bushy tree with thick thorns to hide under. 

Once comfortably installed, they companionably ate and agreed upon harvesting food once they would be well rested. Thranduil insisted on building a shelter with dead branches and the boat. Glorfindel let him do; the Prince seemed to enjoy himself very much, and the Golden Knight took the occasion to use his tiredness as a legitimate excuse to not move his little finger further. He took his pipe from his bag, put some weed in and lit it. Mithrandir’s weed was of the finest to be found. The wizard claimed he purchased it in the Shire from Hobbits. 

Lazily, the warrior watched Thranduil build the shelter, cursing at the branches (did he expect them to retort back?) and Elvish rope. When this little spectacle was done, the Prince lifted the boat and positioned it against the tree trunk, the seats facing Glorfindel. The Sinda slid under their temporary home. Rain drops heavily crashed against the boat.

“Ha,” exclaimed the Greenwood Elf, “the Maiar of the Sea may show little cooperation in our daily lives, but at least they waited for me to be under the shelter before letting rain fall.” He looked at Glorfindel’s pipe, “What are you smoking?” 

“Uh…” The Vanya frankly had no idea. “Weed from Mithrandir from Hobbits from the Shire?” 

“May I?”

Glorfindel lent his companion his pipe. Thranduil inhaled, then softly exhaled. 

“Ha, yes,” he hummed, “I heard they cultivate great herbs in the West.” He relaxed against the tree. He blinked. “We cannot smoke!” he cried. 

“Why is that? There is an evacuation hole,” the warrior pointed the small space above him. 

“The smell will impregnate our clothing! If the Enemy has sent spies, they will recognise this distinct scent!” 

The Captain could not find valuable arguments in favour of smoking, even though, what were the chances spies of Morgoth would chase such weed scent? He made a dry gesture of the hand, sulking. He enjoyed this weed very much. Thranduil made a guilty face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled behind his teeth. The Prince then used his bag as a pillow and wrapped his cape around his body.

He looks like he is a giant grey caterpillar, thought Glorfindel. He nonetheless pressed his back against the trunk of the tree and dozed off. 

The balrogslayer was brought back to reality by a strange feeling. He heard the rain crash against the shelter. But there was something else… His Elven senses intimated him to be cautious. He slowly turned his head, wondering if Thranduil was scheming Valar-know-what.

He screamed.

Above Thranduil stood a figure draped in a crimson red robe with heavy jewellery, an eight-branched star on his chest, long wavy black hair floating around his arms. The figure, surprised, jerked his head towards him. Glorfindel yelled louder, terrorised. 

The Prince woke up, brandished his sword, alert. He noticed the body next to him and shrieked. By reflex, he wielded his weapon; it passed through the ghost. The Sinda stepped back, clinging to Glorfindel. 

“Do you see this?”

“Yes, I do!”

“It’s a ghost! A ghost!!”

“I know! We can’t kill it, it’s already dead!”

“Why are we both seeing it?”

“It’s Mithrandir’s weed,” moaned Glorfindel, pained. “He should have warned me, the scoundrel.” 

Thranduil scrutinised him. “Yes…” he mumbled. “It all makes sense… We have shrooms in Greenwood and they have worrisome effects like this…” 

Without looking back, the Prince took his bag and hugged it tight, facing Glorfindel. “Let’s try to sleep,” he declared, “the effects will have worn off by then. Don’t look at the ghost! It will only encourage your brain to enhance the hallucination as a rational explanation to what you are experiencing.” Thranduil buried his head against the Captain’s chest, unwilling to admit he was frightened by this hallucinatory episode. The Golden Knight covered them both with his cape.

Fëanor crossed his arms, offended. This turn of events visibly displeased him; he would never succeed to gain what he desired the most if the silmaril bearer reduced him to be a mere mirage induced by drug consumption. 

“Bloody Manwë, for fucking Glaurung’s sake, you must be fucking kidding me!”

Glorfindel grunted. This was not the kind of awakening method he preferred, quite on the contrary. He rubbed his eyes, grumbling, “Thran’, could you please-”

“He is there again!”

“What?” The Golden Knight noticed his hand reposed on the Prince’s thigh, more precisely, on the area that was perilously close to the crotch. He removed it discreetly. 

“That stupid rotten ingrown hair that is the ghost has not vanished! Mithrandir’s weed is extremely potent! I am convinced he accidentally gave you plants Maiar smoke! Fucking Morgoth Bauglir!”

The Captain risked a quick glance.

Oh no.

Thranduil was right. 

The ghost was sitting behind the Prince, legs crossed, wearing an outraged expression; he was not the kind of person who was used to be thrown insults above his head like he was an insignificant worm. He winced when the Sinda started an enthusiastic rant in the Greenwood tongue. He and Glorfindel could not understand a single word, but the sharp movements of the Elda furiously looking for something in his bag suggested the content of said rant was rather impolite. 

“You.”

A single word. Thranduil glanced at Glorfindel, his pale eyes questioning, but the balrogslayer had put all his attention to the ghost. 

_”You.”_

He rumbled like thunder. He stood; so did the ghost. He also hit his head on the top of the shelter, which the ghost did not—his head obviously passed through the branches. Glorfindel kneeled, taking a deliberately slow breath, and rubbed his head. The Sinda put a hand on his knee, comforting. 

“Fëanor,” Glorfindel growled. It came to Thranduil’s mind that when under the influence of anger, his companion indeed had the will power to slay a balrog. The ghost grinned; finally, one of those two idiots recognised him and called him by his name! 

The Sinda considered the Ñoldo, “Quite indeed, he looks like the one who attacked me when Erestor, Lindir and I were on our way to Imladris, excluding a few minor physical differences.” He frowned, “He also looks like your friend Celebrimbor…” 

The Golden Knight made a dismissive gesture of the hand, “Fëanor is his grandfather, after all. Now, I am curious to know, why in Ingwë’s name is he here?” 

“Because I-” started the ghost, but was cut by Glorfindel who shouted, “Shut up already! You have caused more than enough trouble during your short pitiful life, not to mention your despicable silmarils! You do not need to add any more than that!” 

“Are you sure it is a good idea to spill your frustration on a hallucination,” interjected the Greenwood Elf, whose reason suddenly made a comeback at the most relevant moment. “And pray tell, how will you be granted an answer if you interrupt the subject of your interrogations?”

This cooled Glorfindel down who pondered those words, before concluding with horror, “No… This is no doing of the Valar or the weed… He is no hallucination…Tyelpë did mention his grandfather was released from Mandos, did he not?” 

Thranduil paled. Perhaps the warrior was right. Perhaps Gandalf did give Glorfindel perfectly fine weed from the Shire with no hallucinogenic properties. 

Secret anger burned within him. Having to cast a silmaril—and himself, since his physical dependence would not allow him to live without the jewel without being corrupted by black magic—was enough of a curse already, he did not need to be damned with Fëanor’s presence.

He promised he would lead Fëanor with him to Mordor so Morgoth could deal with the ghost personally.

So be it. 

***

“What a good idea it was to ride on our horses! I cannot believe Thranduil and Glorfindel walked all the way here,” said Gil-galad. 

He, Erestor, Lindir and Elrond had departed Rivendell some days ago—they forgot to count, they only decided to pause each night to let the horses rest, in addition of four breaks per day. They did not know what was with Elrond’s hairbrush that made the matter so pressing—Elrond himself could not precisely tell—but the Peredhel had been so desperate and convincing they complied. They knew the healer was gifted with foresight and did not doubt his instinct, even though they questioned the relevance of a precious hairbrush. 

Thankfully for them, Erestor had brought with them a map of Middle Earth, and the High King knew the exact way to Lothlorien. On the contrary to Glorfindel, he was up to date concerning the construction of Moria and had not uselessly made his subjects and their horses go on dangerous and deadly roads. 

In front of the gates, Gil-galad declared they would walk next to their horses. He did not know how high the ceilings were, even though he estimated they were high enough for a grown Elda, since Celebrimbor was personally implied in the construction of the Dwarven domain, and it would be rather inconvenient if the Ñoldorin smith could not stand straight. 

Being of the Ñoldor, the little company always had positive relationship with the Dwarves and was not scared that they could penetrate in enemy territory. Quite on the contrary. 

They turned the corner and faced a Dwarf. 

“I am Narvi. The Maia Annatar foresaw your presence. You may follow me, the Master Smith is waiting for you,” he declared with no further introductions. 

“Is this safe,” frowned Erestor. 

“He said our presence was foreseen by a Maia and I would conjecture he is well acquainted with Tyelpë,” shrugged Gil-galad. 

“Correct,” responded Narvi in front of them.

“Who is this Annatar,” mused Lindir aloud. 

Erestor and Elrond shrugged. They did not know all the names of the Ainur by heart, except for, of course, the Valar. And the troublemakers. This included Sauron, Gothmog, Ungoliant, Thuringwethil, Ossë, and Gandalf. 

Narvi briefly exchanged words with an Elf before turning to them. “Dior will bring your horses to the stable so they can eat and rest. Follow me, I will bring you to Master Celebrimbor.” 

They entered what seemed to be a living room. Celebrimbor was bended over a table, engaged in a lively discussion with a Nazgûl who was unmistakenly his father Curufin. Next to them stood a Maia of a breath-taking beauty, who appeared ready to hang himself on the wall—the Nazgûl Celegorm obviously had penetrated into his personal space against his consent, and shamelessly flirted with him. It is to say the infatuation the Fëanorion had for Sauron was no secret—he was attracted by divine beauty. And Annatar fitted this criterion perfectly, but none knew Annatar was Sauron in disguise (save for Radagast, Saruman and Gandalf, but they kept this fact secret for safety reasons.)

“Uncle Celegorm, leave the poor lad alone,” jokingly said Elrond as he went close to Celebrimbor to greet him. 

“Elrond! What are you doing here?” shouted Celegorm and Curufin at the same time, while Celebrimbor contented himself with an enthusiastic, “Hey, cousin! Long time no see!” 

“I’m afraid this is a long story,” sighed Gil-galad, passing a hand through his dishevelled hair. 

He turned around. 

Lindir and Erestor were no longer with them. 

These two quickly exited the room, not knowing where to go. 

“Master Narvi!” screamed Erestor, seeing the Dwarf to the end of the corridor, chatting with another Dwarf. 

“I believed you were with Master Celebrimbor,” Narvi crossed his arms. 

“Yes. Well no. In the facts, yes, but it is no longer the case,” stuttered the librarian. “Listen, my friend and I cannot stay in Moria; the Nazgûls are here and us two are specifically in danger.”

Narvi hummed, unconvinced.

“We have a bad history with them,” added Lindir. “Our companions are safe, but us, no.”

“He is right,” pressed the librarian. “We must fetch our horses and depart Moria.” 

“How will you warn your friends,” asked the Dwarf, dubious. “Because if they question me, I do not know what I will answer.”

Erestor opened his mouth but closed it. This was a detail he had forgotten to think about… 

“Telepathy! Elven magic,” Lindir blurted out. Erestor had never been so grateful to be with the musician. 

The other Dwarf addressed Narvi in Khuzdul. This last one listened, then scrutinised the two Ñoldor, arms still crossed. “I am aware the Nazgûls are servants of Morgoth,” Narvi finally sighed. “Master Celebrimbor and Lord Annatar promised they would cause no harm to any of us, and for a reason I ignore—and apparently the Nazgûls as well, isn’t it both ridiculous and ironic—the Nazgûls are deadly scared of Lord Annatar. But I conceide that you, on the other hand, do not benefit from Lord Annatar’s protection… Come with me, I will show you the stables.” 

Erestor and Lindir sighed of relief. They now debated where to wait for Elrond and Gil-galad.

“Right after the exit?” suggested the bard.

“Too risky,” replied the librarian. “What if the Nazgûls would want to go out?”

“Why would they want to go out?”

“You seriously can’t believe they will spend the rest of their life here, one day or the other, Morgoth will call them back to him—and disobeying the Dark Lord is the perfect recipe for catastrophe.” 

“The Golden Woods are near,” said Narvi who was walking in front of them. “The magic of the Elven Witch is strong; they would never dare to enter her domain.”

Then again, the Dwarven smith proved to own the single braincell of the place and to use it properly. 

“Have you contacted Elrond?” enquired Lindir. “Telepathically,” he added.

“No,” answered Erestor. “Have you?”

“No.” 

They finally reached Elrond—both of them simultaneously, since they had the same idea at the same time. It hit Elrond’s spirit like Gandalf’s staff hits a Balrog (the grey wizard did not bear a particular love for the fallen Maiar and demonstrated valuable anti-Balrog fighting techniques on the battlefield.) 

_’What,’_ grunted the Peredhel who was crushed into a breath-taking, so to speak, hug, courtesy of Celegorm. 

_’Listen, it’s important. Erestor and I are riding to Lothlorien now, we cannot accidentally bump into the servants of Morgoth, they will recognise us,’_ pressed Lindir.

_’Which could eventually put Thranduil’s life in danger,’_ agreed Erestor. _’Pretend we never existed, and that we have no connections with the Prince—or Glorfindel, for that matter.’_

_’I understand you and Gil-galad are friends with Celebrimbor, but please do not chat like women grandmothers forever,’_ whined the musician. _’We are doing this journey because of your hairbrush, remember? I want it to end quickly.’_

_’Understood,’_ replied Elrond. _’Wait a minute, who are you calling a woman grandmother?’_

_’Why do you act so offended when you indeed have Mannish blood,’_ huffed Erestor. 

_’It was the grandmother part,’_ helpfully provided Lindir.

_’He is far older than any Númenórean could dream to be, and consequently, older than a grandmother!’_ argued the scholar. 

Elrond used his magic to shoo his companions away from his mind and banged his head against Celegorm’s shoulder, exasperated. His uncle patted him on the back, and then let him go. The Peredhel looked around him; the Maia Annatar was on the couch, working on a necklace and detailing to Curufin the technique he used, and Gil-galad and Celebrimbor were debating over the relevance of carving a Fëanorian star on the soon-to-be doors of Khazad-dûm. 

The healer was having an inner monologue with himself concerning the best time to leave but was interrupted by muffled yet worrying sounds. He, Gil-galad, Celebrimbor, Celegorm and Curufin stared at the door, wary—only Annatar remained perfectly undisturbed. 

Two shadows burst into the room. 

“Elrond is here!” one screamed.

“Tyelko, get out the way, he’s my son, not yours!” yelled the other. 

The poor Peredhel found himself in the arms of Maedhros and Maglor who hugged him like they would never see him again. Amras peered at the door. “I tried to tell them to be more discreet, but they would not listen,” said Amras with embarrassement. 

Elrond repressed a long sigh. They would never succeed to reach Glorfindel and Thranduil. 

***

Galadriel rested her cup of herbal tea on the table, rubbing her forehead. 

“Migraine?” asked Celeborn, not taking his eyes away from the report about the exported goods of Lothlorien to the neighbouring realms. With the establishment of the Dwarvish village—if Moria could be called a village, the Sinda Lord never knew what word to use to describe Dwarvish settlements—he ought to rethink his exportation and importation policies and include Moria as a potential trading partner. He learnt long ago that Greenwood the Great would never partake to an economical alliance with Lothlorien; Oropher had the tendencies to trade only with the Avari of Far-Rhûn, but not with other Elven realms, because the Elvenking claimed all the goods Lothlorien and Imladris produced could locally be found at Greenwood the Great, plus Erebor and Laketown were at his door, providing him with exclusive Dwarvish and Mannish products. 

“Not quite, but soon yes,” responded the Lady of the Golden Woods, extracting her husband from his politico-economical reflection. “I had a vision…”

“Uh huh.” After millennia of marriage, Celeborn knew visions could mean anything, something he discovered soon enough. Apparently, Elu Thingol suffered from the same issue with Melian—and Maiar were worse than Eldar in this respect! Clearly, they originated from another world. Only Sauron and Gothmog seemed to possess a linear way of thinking, or at least adapted their way they think to life in Arda. A bit sad to consider it required to swear allegiance to the Dark Forces to gain a minimum of good sense. Perhaps this was the secret knowledge Eru granted Melkor at the beginning of times, the highly valuable skills of adaptation. 

“Elrond, Gil-galad, Lindir and Erestor are coming soon,” she pursued, interrupting the Lord’s mental ramblings. “They are after something very valuable to Elrond.”

She sighed and shook her head. Celeborn suddenly remembered her past prophecy; a prophecy that implied important personalities of the Elven world. He remembered his conjecture and his deepest fear. 

“Tell me,” started the Sindarin Lord, “your previous vision… It was about Thranduil carrying the silmaril to Mordor, correct?” 

“Yes.”

“So… There is no risk Gil-galad will ask Celebrían’s hand?”

Galadriel looked at her husband strangely. 

“Darling, no more weed for you, it gives you implausible ideas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is the stupidest chapter so far. But they're all stupid anyways.


	11. Chapter XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf eats his pipe.

“Do you at the very least remember how to access Caras Galadhon?” Erestor rubbed his forehead, tired. He and Lindir had waited in the woods for hours—it had seemed Maedhros and Maglor refused to let go of their foster son and it had taken Annatar to kindly remind them with a slightly tight smile the Nazgûls surely had other business to attend, and so did the visitors. 

“Approximately…” Gil-galad trailed off, suddenly discovering a newborn interest, gazing at the trees. Wow, for all this time in Lothlorien, he had not given the trees much attention beforehand. What a miss. Such magnificent trees! And there was no need to reply to Erestor at all!

The scholar sighed. 

Behind him, Elrond stared at his hands—obviously not holding his reins. Thankfully, his horse was calm and obediently followed the others. The eyes of his master were red of shed tears. The Peredhel realised with difficulty his fathers were servants of Morgoth and swore allegiance to the Dark Lord—he had hoped they would one day be freed from magic, be it the Oath or black magic. He prayed Mandos to redeem the Fëanorion one day or the other. 

Where would they go when their life would end? The question of Thranduil echoed in his mind, ‘Where do Men go when they die?’ 

He missed Elros. 

He felt something pressed against his thigh. Lindir rode close to him, offering him comfort with his presence. Elrond wiped his eyes, straightened his shoulders and paid attention to Gil-galad and Erestor’s conversation. Which would be more adequately qualified as a banter, as per usual. 

Elrond froze.

Lindir sent him a questioning glance—this was a sudden change of emotion. 

It came to the healer’s mind that they were indeed in Lothlórien. Lothlórien was ruled by Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. They happened to have a daughter. 

Elrond was secretly in love with Celebrían. 

He passed from pink to beet red, then paled abruptly. Lindir judged wise to not ask anything, but to keep an eye on him in case he was what Men called ‘sick’ (the barman Robert called it ‘fever’, he believed?) 

The Peredhel was in a state of complete panic. He was not ready to meet the young Lady of Caras Galadhon under those circumstances. Diplomatic meetings were his element and he usually carried better clothes for this occasion. But now… he would have to justify why he coerced his companions into a quest. A hairbrush! Really! What would Celebrían say? The healer himself could not explain the urgency of the situation with words, he merely had to retrieve his good. 

He wished the Númenórean brush was filled with old magic so his frenzy would be justified. Perhaps Lady Galadriel, with her power and foresight, knew something he did not?

Such a mess he was! 

Emotions were not his cup of tea. So was not the lack of logic in all situations. He needed to make tea with the herbal kind Rohirrim grew. For the moment being, the name of said plant flew out of Elrond’s mind. Not that it was crucial for the Ñoldo at this very moment. Maybe yes. Maybe yes.

He realised his horse was motionless. 

“Let’s go down,” commanded Gil-galad, “people are coming.”

They all complied. The King intimated them to walk next to their mounting.

The High King of the Ñoldor, obviously gazing at the trees and not in front of him—those trees were indeed intriguing—bumped into the Marchwarden of the Galadhrim who suddenly jumped from his tree and appeared before him.

Haldir. 

“Your… Majesty…” started the Nando, seemingly startled. Confused and speechless, he opened his mouth, quite probably to ask why His Majesty gifted Lothlorien with his presence at this very random day but decided against it and opted for a ‘What in Arda?’ gesture of the hand. 

“We desire to speak to the Lord and Lady,” declared Erestor. He must remain the head of this operation. 

“Do you, really,” articulated Haldir, frowning. “I do not recall the Lady mentioning a word of your visit…” 

“We are on a quest,” sighed Gil-galad. “We are seeking refuge for the night, or the next two or three.” 

“Oh. Right. I see. If Your Majesty says so. You may follow me.” 

The Marchwarden was not one to question the whereabouts of an Elven High King, no less. To his face, more precisely. He did wander why they had come, and what this quest could be. Certainly, it was not linked to Prince Thranduil and Captain Glorfindel, was it? 

“Do you bring words of your companions?” he dared to ask.

“Glorfindel and Thranduil?” replied Erestor. “I was hoping you would share with us.” 

“Oh,” eloquently put Haldir, “not really, no. They departed days ago, followig the Anduin. They were hosted for a short amount of time, during…” He paused. It was best his Lady and Gandalf announced the group the tragic news concerning the Sindarin Prince’s fate. “For the time needed for them to rest,” he finished. 

Gil-galad nodded. 

They stopped at night to let the horses rest and happily slept in talans. The Galadhrims provided them food—a change from lembas was most welcome. They reached Lothlórien the next day. Gil-galad and Erestor sighed of relief and Elrond squeaked, which granted him the inquisitive gaze of his companions and the Marchwarden. As soon as they penetrated into Caras Galadhon, some Elves took their horses with them, freeing the little company from their mountings. The High King of the Ñoldor told himself none should be ashamed from liking the activity of tree gazing, it was an excellent way to avoid Erestor’s inquisitive interrogations—the librarian had asked him a few questions, but Gil-galad beautifully ignored them, his attention captured by the sight of the golden trees. He picked a golden leave from the ground and brushed it appreciatively. Haldir guided them to the talan of the Lord and Lady. 

Elrond looked around him and saw a group of ellyn and ellyth walking between the talans. He paled. Celebrían was amongst them. This last one saw whom Haldir was guiding to her parents’ abode, addressed a few words to her friends and walked to them. Elrond unconsciously grabbed Erestor’s sleeve in panic. The librarian raised a brow. 

“I, uh, almost fell,” sheepishly justified the herald. 

A sound of a dove choking underwater escaped Lindir’s throat. He took a deep breath and bit his lips, excessively amused by the situation. The feelings Elrond had for the young Lady was no secret to him; he had known for years. The Peredhel glared at him. 

“Mae govannen, my Lady,” bowed Gil-galad, visibly in a good mood. 

“Well met,” Celebrían bowed to everyone and looked at Haldir expectandly.

“They are on a side quest,” replied the Galadhrim. “The details of their journey shall be discussed with his Lord and Lady.” 

“I’m afraid they are at the market,” Celebrían scratched her neck. “They will be back later tonight. I shall ask the staff to prepare guest rooms.” 

“And the bathing room!” exclaimed Gil-galad. Erestor looked at his King fondly with hidden exasperation. The King required a bath and to be clean once more.

At these words, Elrond found himself the poor victim of unethical thoughts. 

***

“The will of Eru is the strangest of them all,” commented Gandalf, chewing on his pipe—a sign he was concerned by the situation. 

Elrond nervously twirled his hair around his finger. He had admitted in front of Galadriel, Celeborn, Gandalf, and Celebrían no less, that Glorfindel had accidentally taken his hairbrush, which was of high value, and they were on a mission to retrieve it. 

“I did feel magic…” put Galadriel.

“Of course, you did, Thranduil carried the silmaril with him,” huffed Celeborn. 

“Magic in addition of the silmaril,” retorted the Lady of the Golden Woods. “Elrond, dear, was there any Númerónean occultism we must know of?” 

Elrond frowned, “Other than the Temple of Melkor? No, I doubt so. This brush was made when Elros was still among us…” His throat tightened. 

Lindir patted his thigh amicably. There was no one else in the world the healer missed the most but his long-departed twin brother. 

“Are you insinuating,” asked Gil-galad, comfortably installed on cushions, and about to fall in Irmo’s arms, “this brush is magic, therefore Elrond insisted on running after Glorfindel?”

Galadriel and Gandalf consulted each other by a quick glance. Celebrian rolled her eyes, Ainurin communication and whatnot, she seemed to express. Celeborn ignored both his wife and daughter. 

“It is a strong possibility,” declared Gandalf. “What this brush is made of, I do not know. Asking other hairbrushes is no option, they do not speak…” 

Elrond was lost in deep reflection, Erestor furiously scratched something on a parchment and Lindir was not paying attention. 

“Speaking of magic,” hummed Gil-galad, “what are the news concerning our two blondes?” 

The rulers of Caras Galadhon looked at each other uncomfortably and Gandalf chewed his pipe with greater fervour. 

“There were some,” coughed Celebrían, hesitant, “unfortunate and unforeseen events. Do I start by the funny or by the sad news?” 

“If the good news is strong enough to lift our spirits, then do tell last,” the High King of the Ñoldor said, placing a pillow behind his back. 

They heard a crunch. The grey wizard bit his pipe so hard he broke it. He did not appear bothered at all. 

“Well,” continued Celebrían, “Haldir had never met the Prince before and he confused him for Sauron, believing the Dark Lord had manipulated Glorfindel, had taken a fake identity and intended to enter our realm to corrupt it.” 

“Oh, that is not so bad, I expected worse.” commented Erestor. “I am sure Thranduil’s bad temper is alike to Sauron’s. Now, what are the funny news? Glorfindel raised a riot by wandering in the woods shirtless?”

“This was the funny news,” grimly deadpanned the young Lady. Lindir looked worried, Elrond was nervous, Erestor muttered ‘oh’ and Gil-galad eloquently responded with ‘uh’. 

Celebrían glanced at his father. 

Gandalf chew wood and swallowed. 

“Remember when Thranduil was stabbed by a Dark Knight?” Celeborn rubbed his forehead and sighed. 

They all nodded.

“Black magic infiltrated his body, but the silmaril’s power prevents it from expanding,” the Lord pursued. “However, if he separates from the silmaril, Morgoth’s magic will take possession of his body, furthermore, corrupt him. He cannot cast the silmaril at his own cost, but he cannot not cast the silmaril at Arda’s cost. Yet… the Prince decided he would go to Mount Doom nevertheless, and never see Middle Earth again.” 

Silence fell upon the room.

“B-But…” stuttered Lindir. “Does it mean he will, will-…?” 

“He would die, yes,” said Galadriel gravely. 

“That is unfair!” shouted the bard. “Surely there is a way to undo this! His burden is heroic, Mandos surely will re-embody him, just like he did so with Glorfindel!” 

“Only Námo will decide on this matter,” said Gandalf. “Either way, you shall see your friend again in the Undying Lands.”

“Yes, in how many millennia,” scoffed the Ñoldo. “We sent him to his death! How many silmarils did Fëanor forge? Three? One was cast in the sky by Eärendil, one is with Thranduil and Glorfindel, but there is still one that remains in Morgoth’s hands!” 

Gandalf took his hat and put it on his lap. “Three is what we suppose,” he articulated. 

“Suppose?” repeated Elrond and Erestor.

The wizard suddenly looked very old and tired.

“There may be more.”

***

“The Nazgûls are deaf.”

Glorfindel choked on his blueberries. Fëanor choked too, but on nothingness. 

“What?” said the Captain, incredulous. “Where did you get such ideas?”

Thranduil shrugged, “This is what Mithrandir told me.”

“Mithrandir is not always up-to-date,” provided the Vanya helpfully. 

Thranduil hummed. He did not talk very much. He attempted to teach Glorfindel the tongue of Greenwood, but the constant presence of the Finwion left him on his guards; if the ghost had no prior knowledge of Sindarin, he nonetheless was quick to grasp new languages and it would not be long before he understood the tongue of Doriath. The Prince and Glorfindel had agreed to keep their conversation in Westron, mostly on insignificant things—the desire to annoy the ghost with nonsense was strong. 

Three days of rowing with a ghost floating near above the river. Glorfindel was about to commit a fourth kinslaying, but had, to his misfortune, little power over a being that was already dead. He ensured to mentally express his frustration to Manwë. With luck, the King of the Vala would catch his thoughts and act as soon as possible. That is, if said messages were caught. The inactivity of the Valar, save for Ulmo and Melkor, was very well known in Middle Earth. 

Thranduil ignored the ghost royally. He was the embodiment of cold indifference. Which infuriated Fëanor who was not used to not be the centre of the attention for more than three seconds. Once, he had shouted at the Prince, and this last one had roared. It was enough to silence the Ñoldo. 

But the patience of the two companions grew thin. The Sinda considered becoming a servant of Morgoth and pursuing Fëanor in the afterlife as vengeance—after all, the Ñoldo indeed was part of the greatest troublemakers of the world. To Thranduil’s eyes, who remembered Doriath bitterly, Fëanor had to pay. How? He did not know. Hitting the ghost with the silmaril was unlikely to be an efficient method. 

Next to him, the spectre seemed to gamble. Great. The Wood Elf did not stir and decided to lead his thoughts to pleasantness; home, his friends, the trees, the smell of Greenwood cuisine, Galion’s life saving innovations, and so on. The Prince felt a nudge at his side. 

“He has an idea,” said Glorfindel. 

“Is that all? He very surely has plenty, and none of them are good,” retorted Thranduil, irritated.

“Look, I too would throw him in Glaurung’s mouth at any second,” sighed the Captain, who rubbed his forehead with shared irritation. “But Glaurung is nowhere near.”

“What does he want,” the Sinda cut him.

“He claims he knows the way to the Black Gate.” 

Thranduil took a bite of berries and stared at the ghost. This last one had his arms crossed, his face expectant. 

“Does he…” dubiously grunted the Prince. 

“I do,” confirmed the ghost, “I did travel to Middle Earth long enough to-”

“I was not talking to you,” Thranduil made a dismissive gesture of the hand. Turning to Glorfindel, he continued, “So, you were advancing that…” 

“Yes, and I am seriously considering this option,” nodded the warrior. “War is inevitable. Morgoth saw you, a Nazgûl stabbed you, black magic is in your body—he tracks you. He is Allseeing to everything he touches. One day or another, he will release his armies. With that being established, if that over here,” he pointed at Fëanor, “does not cooperate and wrongs us, punishment might be granted from the Valar. Ilúvatar is fair and permits to repent, but one must earn the possibility of redemption. We have to reach Mordor, we cannot delay, it is best to do it as soon as possible, including taking the help from a murderer.” 

Thranduil looked at his hands, contemplative. 

He took a long breath.

“Let us do it.” 

Fëanor raised an eyebrow (Glorfindel thought Thranduil did it better.)

The Sinda addressed the Ñoldo, “Lead us to Mordor.” 

***

The Fellowship of the Brush—courtesy of Lord Celeborn who never missed a single occasion to exercise what Gandalf qualified as ‘fatherly humour’—had their horses ready. They waited for Haldir to join them and to lead the way to the borders. Their bags were full of lembas—attention from Lady Galadriel who acted very motherly to them all during their stay. 

They heard steps.

“Haldir, my friend, it was about time,” exclaimed Gil-galad, whose mood considerably improved with good rest. 

“I’m afraid I will be a poor substitute of our best Marchwarden,” an amused feminine voice replied. 

“Lady Celebrían,” Elrond dropped, torn between rejoice or flight. 

“It is me,” she winked. 

“What are you doing here,” inquired Lindir, cocking his head. 

“The council of my mother is wise,” started the young Lady, “I know the woods by heart and I inherited her power and foresight.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elrond, whose intelligence affectionated to escape when he was in the presence of Celebrían. 

“I shall accompany you,” she declared confidently. “We shall do this journey together. You will need me, after all.” 

***

“Are you certain it was a good idea to let her go with them?”

“Artanis, it’s the middle of the night,” muffled Celeborn against his pillow. “Besides, it was your idea, not hers neither mine.” 

“We should have sent Haldir with her. The boys do not mean ill, but we never know with Ñoldor…” 

“They are not all like your cousins. If Elrond is your main source of worry, rest at peace, the ellon would never dare to harm a bug.”

Galadriel stared at the dark ceiling. 

“What do you think of Elrond as a son-in-law?” she wondered.

“He has the soul of an old Man, I like him good enough,” sleepily answered the Lord. “But Celebrían is oblivious when it comes to the language of love, we will have the time to see the Sun fade before they wed.”

Galadriel sighed. 

A terrifying thought crossed her mind. She clapped the shoulder of her husband, who replied with a grunt—he always was in a foul mood whenever his sleep was interrupted. 

“Do you realise who will become grandparents when they will have children,” she pronounced with a hollow voice.

“You and I?”

“Yes. But also, Maedhros and Maglor.” 

Celeborn looked at her. 

“I refuse my foolish cousins to be around our future grandchildren!” the Lady declared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Elrond.


	12. Chapter XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two bros in a hot tub because it's not gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there (General Kenobi), you'll excuse me for the delay of updates, but university's taking lots of my energy

“We are unmistakably lost,” sighed Thranduil. He and Glorfindel had climbed the rocks of the Emyn Muil for days under the guidance of Fëanor who was equally lost, but who deliberately refused to admit it in order to preserve his pride. 

“We are,” grunted Glorfindel. “The sun soon will rise; let’s find a shelter and rest.” 

The Sindarin Prince nodded. He needed to let his aching feet take a rest. They continued to walk for a while, speaking little. Fëanor, ashamed of himself, floated in retreat. 

“Do you hear what I hear,” enquired Thranduil.

“I do,” answered his companion. They looked at each other and in mutual agreement, then rushed to the source of the sound. Before them stood a small waterfall and a pond. “A bath is most welcome,” sighed the Captain with relief. He touched the water; it was fresh, but not unbearably cold. Cold… He shivered, reminiscing the Helcaraxë. The things he had done for friendship…! But now Turgon was dead, Gondolin had fallen, some had survived, Gothmog was still alive, no one knew what happened with Eärendil and Elwing’s silmaril. 

Fëanor’s face appeared to the surface of the water. Glorfindel jumped and screamed. 

“Such a grim face,” said the ghost. “This pond is not haunted.” The Ñoldo turned his head, “Hey! You there! What do you think you are doing?” 

“Taking my clothes off, perhaps?” the snarky voice of the Wood Elf resonated on Glorfindel’s right. He realised his companion was shirtless and in the process of undoing his breeches. He gracefully chose to stare at his feet instead.

“Why?” angrily asked Fëanor—he was in a permanent state of grumpiness, and recently delivered a frustrated speech about the moon and the sun—he dearly missed the Trees. 

“Because,” slowly articulated Thranduil, sliding his trousers down, “I will wash, right here, in this pond. For this activity, I require to be naked. _Naked._ I am not asking you to watch.” 

Fëanor emitted offended noises and vanished. 

“For someone who has had seven sons, he is quite sensitive about nudity,” commented the Prince, entering the pond. He addressed Glorfindel, who was still frozen in his semi-seated position, “I suggest you clean yourself too; you look like an Orc.” 

The warrior replied with a grunt—how dared he made such a foul comparison—but removed his clothes. He was illuminated by the brilliant idea of taking a blanket and new clothes out of his bag, and did the same with Thranduil. This last one was busy exploring the water and did not witness the strip tease the Vanya offered. Not that Glorfindel minded, on the contrary; his unbreakable self-confidence was maliciously crushed in the presence of the Prince. He felt the urgent need to consult Lindir, nicknamed the ‘Elf of love’ by the men and women of Imladris’ Mannish neighbouring village. His expertise would not go amiss and could presented itself very useful in certain situations. 

Cold water splashed the golden knight. Victim of his ruminations, he had no time to register what was happening that a second wave hit him. Incredulous, he rubbed his eyes and saw the immense grin Thranduil wore. 

“You-,” started Glorfindel, but was silenced by the grace of a third splash of water. Decidedly, the newest quest of the Sinda was to ensure the balrogslayer would be wet from head to toe in the lapse of a blink. Groaning, the Vanya jumped in the pond and swam after Thranduil. They played like absolute elflings. Glorfindel hoped for a moment the water was not poisoned.

The Wood Elf was on his back, arms around his shoulders and legs around his waist when someone clearing his throat interrupted their game. Fëanor glared at them, unimpressed. Glorfindel heard Thranduil ‘tssk’. He then realised the position in which they were. 

Naked.

In a pond.

With a little more than minimal skin contact. 

The golden knight awkwardly looked at the ghost. This last one seemed to know very well where this could end had he not appeared in this moment.

The best Glorfindel thought of doing was to pull the same face he did when he was an elfing and his mother caught him eating biscuits in secret. He felt the Sinda rest his chin on the top of his head, sighing melodramatically. 

“Ehm,” unelegantly squeaked the balrogslayer, “this is awkward.” He swallowed; was there a hand traveling down his chest? Was the water enchanted? Was it Gandalf’s fault, again? In doubt, always blame the wizard. Rumours say he once had a secret alliance with Melkor long ago, after the failed seduction of Ossë and right before the corruption of Mairon. A proof that blaming Gandalf can be legitimately explained.

“Be quick, get out from the water,” dryly ordered Fëanor. 

Thranduil did not move and engaged in a staring game with the ghost. Sadly, for the Ñoldo, the Prince excelled in this activity. 

“So?” impatiently spat the Finwion. “We do not have forever.” 

“Why don’t you explore this land so we will not be lost once more,” deadpanned Thranduil.

“I did. You two, however, appear greatly preoccupied by another kind of leisure activity.”

“Is that so,” a brow was raised thranduilesquely. “Does it bother you?”

Fëanor did not reply but folded his arms and scolded them with his glare—after all, he was an experienced father. Glorfindel prayed Ulmo to drown him at this instant. Thranduil went down from the Vanya’s back, slid a hand on his partner’s waist and kept the other was on his chest. Suddenly, the Prince nibbled the warrior’s ear. Glorfindel went from beet red to white and prayed Melkor to send a surprise Balrog attack. He desired most to be extracted from this situation. Had they been in a bedroom, preferably without Fëanor, he would reply to the initiative with enthusiasm, but the environment around them was slightly too hostile to be at the image of a cosy room. Indignant noises escaped the ghost’s throat and he disappeared again. 

“Well,” sighed Thranduil, resting his head on Glorfindel’s shoulder, “it works like a charm. Who would have guessed? He seems like quite the pervert, if you ask me.” 

The Captain, at loss of words, hummed. He was currently processing the last minutes—rather, he was endlessly replaying the last sequence in his mind. Water droplets landed on his face, but he did not stir. A hot tongue running on his nape pulled him back to reality. 

“Are you listening? I hope you do, or else I do not know what to do,” said the Prince. “The pond is pleasing, but the ghost is right, we cannot take forever, and I am starving. Are you alright, my friend? You look sick.” 

Glorfindel muttered, “I assure you I am fine,” but the Sinda was not paying attention and swam back to the shore. The golden knight smiled like an imbecile. The skin on his neck burnt and he wished to be consumed further. He took long breaths, but they aggravated his current ecstasy. Manwë damnit! 

After drying themselves and having washed their clothes, Thranduil and Glorfindel sat around the feast that was smoked salmon meat, dried berries and lembas. The Captain had his feet on the Woodland Elf’s lap; the Prince offered to massage them. This walk in this land of rock caused them noticeable pain. 

“Where is Fëanor,” grunted Thranduil. “I did believe he had found a way and was impatient to pursue the journey.”

“He made a ‘pop’,” supplied the Vanya, the mouth full of lembas and berries. “I say he is trapped between two dimensions and needs to refine his teleportation skills.” 

“Good riddance,” lowly snarled the Prince. “It is because of this idiot we are forced by the ill-will of fate to penetrate into Mordor and drop this arse-of-Sauron useless silmaril.” 

Glorfindel refrained from mentioning that since the Dark Lord was a renowned shapeshifter, there was a high potentiality that his posterior was of the finest. Instead, he added, “You still have it, don’t you?”

“What? The ass of Sauron?” replied the Sinda, pressing his thumb against the tense foot muscles.

“No, idiot,” whined the warrior.

“Watch who you call ‘idiot’.”

“So be it, Your Highness. The silmaril, is it still with you?” 

“Always. There,” Thranduil gently pat Glorfindel’s feet, “walking shan’t be as painful.”

“Thank you. May I return the service?” Words escaped the golden knight’s mouth before he had time to hear what he pronounced. He mentally kicked himself. He could not allow unholy thoughts to penetrate his mind! He wished Lindir was here. Except that Lindir was famously known as a ‘womaniser’ and never found his way in a male’s arm, however, he had great council for the troubled minds. 

Thranduil was looking at him, his beautiful face pensive. Cold sweat ran down Glorfindel’s spine. 

“No, thank you,” declined the Sinda. “I do not have any cramp.” 

Glorfindel felt a bit ridiculous. 

“But,” continued his companion, “I may ask for it the day my muscles will have an agreement to make me suffer.” 

Oh, sweet Elbereth. The grin of the Prince shone with mirth. The Vanya felt warmth in the belly, and this was absolutely not the doing of the lembas’ magic. He heard Thranduil ramble in the distance but did not pay attention until he received his dirty clothes in the face. Thranduil, wrapped in a loose cotton robe, busied into wringing his soaked clothes. Glorfindel got out the water, wrapped himself in his blanket, and proceeded to remove dust and dirt from his things. 

“We will have to wait that our clothes dry before moving further,” mused the Sinda, mostly to himself. 

The Captain nodded. Gandalf’s magic bags did not come with an inside dryer. He thought with amusement this would test the patience—absence of—of the ghost, who was eager to go as quick as possible to Mordor. 

“There is a strange smell in the air, isn’t it,” remarked Thranduil, after hanging his clothes on a tree branch. 

“It’s the lack of vegetation,” commented the golden knight, poiting at the horizon where a land of rocks was extended. 

“We have to go, don’t we,” sighed Thranduil. He sat down and put his back against the truck. Sensing the heavy heart of the Prince, Glorfindel sat to his side. “I don’t want to go,” darkly murmured the Wood Elf. He rested his head on his companion’s shoulder. The Vanya passed his arm around his neck and kissed the top of his head. The Dark Forces had cost the warrior Gondolin; his heart grieve the loss of his friends and he was not eager to see another embraced by the arms of death. 

They departed later, pushed by an impatient Fëanor who made a scene, as per usual, although they successfully negociated an entire day of rest. The two companions agreed that Námo likely asked him to go out to breathe fresh air, which resulted in the escape of the Finwian from the Halls, and the ghost annoying all living beings of Arda. Fëanor had the talent to be worryingly dense. 

They descended narrow ravines of the colour of ashes. They tripped many times, and this without the elegant that characterised most of Elves. After the sixth time and many loud protests, Fëanor agreed taking another road was to be strongly considered—and applied. They then walked on a sinuous road but at least devoid of slippery small rocks. On their left stood small black hills, to which Glorfindel often glanced at anxiously. 

“Look,” pointed the Captain, “there is something atop the hill. It’s moving, I can see it.” 

“It is no Orc,” frowned Fëanor. “They are social creatures and rarely walk alone. The air is charged with foul malice…” 

“This is the Dark Lord’s realm, we must expect everything,” grumbled Thranduil. He nevertheless gazed at the mysterious creature and suppressed a smile. 

The pale halo of Fëanor seemed to fade. The face of the ghost distorted uncomfortably.

“It is one of Ungoliant’s spawns,” he stuttered. 

The giant spider crawled to them as fast as a wolf. Glorfindel drew his sword.

“Don’t,” the Sindarin Prince stopped him.

“Are you mad?” Fëanor shouted.

“Possibly,” deadpanned Thranduil. He sighed, “Trust me.” He turned around and went in the direction of the giant spider. 

The golden knight and the son of Finwë looked at each other with dread painted on their faces. The Wood Elf, unfazed, enjoyed this situation. The spider ran to him. A giant. A monster. 

“Shelob!” Joyful, the Greenwood Elf hurried to the spider, embracing its head with his arms. 

Glorfindel’s sword fell on the ground from his hand and Fëanor secretly wished the will of the Valar would bring him back to Mandos at this very moment. After a few seconds of appearing like deers taken by surprise, they came back to their senses.

“What in the Void!” was all the warrior found to say, but the ghost wholeheartedly agreed with him.

“Come on, she will not eat you,” smiled Thranduil. Glorfindel gestured at him, asking him to give explanations—he decidedly owed him one or two. 

“She lives in the Woodland kingdom,” detailed the Prince. “She rules the spiders there, those who are not against the Wood Elves. It seems she desires to keep an eye on me.” 

The Vanya took his sword back; as absurd as it sounded, the Sinda not being eaten yet by spiders was good enough for him to no longer label the monster as potential threat. Fëanor, on the other hand, disagreed; this spider presented itself a major obstacle to his plan to retrieve the lost silmaril. Worse: what if, like her mother, she could eat it and be left unharmed? No, no, no. This was no good. He could not undo the magic that had taken possession of his sons; they would remain loyal to Morgoth no matter what. 

“We cannot have the spider with us,” spat the ghost.

“Why not?” replied the Woodland Elf.

“Because! Have you not observe it? It is big! It will get us noticed as soon as we cross the Black Gate,” opposed Fëanor.

“Shelob is capable of defending herself,” shrugged the Prince. “With that being said, she does not want to return to Eryn Lasgalen, I cannot convince her to. She listens to no one but herself.”

The son of Finwë sighed, defeated. The spider seemed to giggle. 

Thranduil climbed on Shelob’s enormous abdomen. “Glorfindel! Come!” invited he. 

“No, thank you,” politely declined the balrogslayer. “I-… I can walk.” 

“As you wish, but it is a well deserved rest to our feet.”

“I will let you know when my legs won’t handle me anymore,” offered Glorfindel. 

The Captain shook his head. A giant spider… Gil-galad would never believe him! He wondered with a tinct of nostalgia what his King was doing. Perhaps was he lost again in the neighbouring mountains—many years ago, the High King thought a solo expedition was the illumination of the century and he had departed Elbereth-knows-where. After a week of receiving no news, hunters, Elves and Men from the neighbouring village had searched him, only to find him near a cave, perched on a tree. The Men had reported his state of mind was alike to those who smoke weed provided by some of the Istari. Dear ol’ Ereinion. Glorfindel scoffed to himself. After all, the High King was young, considerably younger than he. Including his time spent at Mandos.

Oh, the Halls of Mandos… 

Only Tuor and Idril had survived Gondolin. The others were lost forever. Granted, Elwing was a bird, Eärendil a star, Turgon preferred to stay at his grandfather Finwë’s, and Ecthelion particularly expressed his desire to remain in the Halls for the well-deserved peace it granted him. 

Glorfindel sometimes wrote letters to Tuor and Idril—they were sneaky and would enquire everything about their remaining grandchild, Elrond. They were impatient to become great grandparents once again (nothing was more delightful than meeting Elros’ heirs to them). 

Something grabbed the Vanya by his cape and his back bag. In an instant, he was on the spider’s abdomen with Thranduil behind him. Giant hairy legs put him in a sitting position in front of the Prince. 

“I observed you and your incessing daydreaming made you look like a hopeless drunkard. You will stay on Shelob’s back for the sake of your safety,” ordered the Sinda behind his ear. 

The Captain grunted, but the tone of the Wood Elf left no place to discussion—he promptly received a tap on the head after expressing his discontentment. 

Glorfindel realised that, finally, riding a giant spider was not unpleasant at all. 

He hated himself for this. 

***

Celebrimbor yawned and rubbed his eyes. He had crafted his first ring and was beyond exhaustion. Lied down on his bed, he glanced at the dancing candlelight. The flame softly changed colour and passed from red to blue, doing of Annatar. One candle was enough to light the entire room. 

Annatar had taught him how to extract his magic to transplant it into his creations. Facing his reticence, the Maia had smiled. He told Celebrimbor there was no way he would pass away from this process. Afterall, his great grandfather Mahtan, known as the legendary Aulendur among the Elves, was still alive. The grandson of Fëanor, however, could not understand how his forefather exercised this method without collapsing from exhaustion. Annatar had shrugged and conjectured there was his possibility Aulendur had the blood of a spirit of Fire in his veins—what else would explain the red hair? Noldor only came from darker shades of brown to black, excluding those who were mixed with Vanyar or the Teleri. 

The smith groaned. Energy had escaped his body. He made the decision to take a day off. He rolled to his side and brushed his hand in Annatar’s shiny pale hair. The Ainu kept his eyes closed. He did not breathe; he needed not to. This had not failed to surprise Celebrimbor, unaccustomed to divine beings. 

“Remind me, why rings?”

“You decidedly require a good night of sleep,” retorted Annatar next to the Elda. 

Celebrimbor sighed; this was true. “Why not a dagger,” he pursued.

“Rings are more practical. If someone touches your hand and attempts to steal it, you will feel it. Rings don’t raise suspicion; they are no weapons.” 

The Ñoldo nodded, his hand resting still in the Maia’s hair. He shifted closer to his mentor. His body exhaled a pleasant warmth, alike to that of Men’s. 

“With the lost silmaril, war is at the door. Those rings will provide protection to the different leaders of Middle-Earth,” continued the Ainu. 

“Did you know,” yawned Celebrimbor, his head pressed against the Maia’s shoulder, “that my grandfather crafted another silmaril, but in a hairbrush? The brush, however, is long lost, and we know not where it is now.”

Annatar opened his eyes in shock. They shone like bright stars in the dark. Celebrimbor thought it was oddly attractive.

“I did not.”

The answer was sharp. He kept quiet. He had stopped breathing.

Celebrimbor fell asleep next to Annatar. He had no idea this last one spied his memories.

And sent them to Melkor.


End file.
